


Quoting War

by not_thepresident



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Character Death, Draco Malfoy is Not a Death Eater, Enemies to Lovers, F/M, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Heavy Angst, Post-War, Resurgence, Slow Burn, Spy Draco Malfoy, Violence, War, hermione and draco live, i promise i wouldn't be that mean, love and war, okay maybe a little bit, you know how it be ;)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-14
Updated: 2021-01-24
Packaged: 2021-03-12 06:08:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 9
Words: 103,863
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28755645
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/not_thepresident/pseuds/not_thepresident
Summary: The war ended, but Hermione Granger can't move on. She's stuck in the mindset she was in during the war, despite her friends' assurances that everything will be okay. But shortly after returning to Hogwarts for her final year, the school is attacked, leaving Hermione and what is left of the Order to fight a Death Eater resurgence. And this time, Draco Malfoy wants to help.
Relationships: Daphne Greengrass/Theodore Nott, Ginny Weasley/Blaise Zabini, Harry Potter/Ginny Weasley, Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy, Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley, Luna Lovegood/Ron Weasley
Comments: 31
Kudos: 57





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> this started as my first ever fanfiction, and in retrospect I should have went for a couple one-shots before I started with a whole work. I had the idea at the beginning of quarantine, and this pair has always been one of my favorites, so I thought, what the hell. I've been posting on ff.net, so the updates will be pretty consistent at the start since I've already written them. still a wip once we get to a certain chapter, but I have every intention of finishing everything! hopefully you enjoy!

* * *

1

_"_ _Appear weak when you are strong, and strong when you are weak."_

_Sun Tzu_

* * *

It was strange, the war ending. Hogwarts reopened. George was back in Diagon Alley, his hours few, but the shop slowly filled with ideas that only he came up with. Andromeda visited the Burrow often with Teddy in tow, just so Harry could get a look at him. Fleur and Bill were even talking about children – she was the only one who knew, having accidentally walked in on their conversation early one morning.

_"_ _Please don't tell my mother," Bill said, his eyes twinkling. "She'd have a fit…a good one, that is. I'd hate to be visited every other day with some new magical potion that increases fertility."_

_"_ _Yoo would not be the one taking 'em," Fleur grumbled under her breath, her disdain for the Weasley matriarch resurfacing._

_"_ _And who says I wouldn't be? Leave it to Mum to invent some concoction in order to have grandchildren."_

_Fleur pouted in disbelief, but at Bill's slow smile, she gave him a peck on the cheek. "Thank you, Hermione," he whispered as his wife pulled him outside, no doubt wanting to continue her tirade on it being much too early for a child, both for them and for the world._

Hermione had always liked Bill. He seemed the most level of all the Weasleys, the only one willing to take a slow and steady approach. She would have kept the couple's secret even if she wasn't partial to him. Truth be told, she was just happy that someone was talking to her at the time. No one really had after Voldemort's anticlimactic thud onto the ground, proving that even the darkest wizard to scour the earth was only human too. She supposed it was her own fault. As soon as they could leave Hogwarts, she locked herself in Ginny's room at the Burrow, coming out only for trips to Flourish and Blotts to buy books about memory charms. For a month and a half, she studied, ignoring everyone around her. Even Ginny couldn't break her concentration, and the poor girl lived in the same room with her.

It took a month and a half for Hermione to realize that her parents' memories could never be restored. She removed herself from the equation permanently. Ginny walked in only minutes after.

" _Hermione?"_

_She didn't move. She stared blankly out the window in front of her. It was getting dark soon. Dinner already came and went._

_"_ _Hermione, can you hear me?"_

_"_ _I can't do it."_

_Ginny rushed over, and she felt her hands at her knee as she kneeled beside the desk._

_"_ _What are you talking about?"_

_Hermione finally looked at her, seeing the panic set firmly on her face._

_"_ _I can't restore my parents' memories."_

It was the first time she had spoken since May. Ginny held her, even cried for her, but Hermione didn't shed a tear. She didn't leave Ginny's room either, not for another month. It wasn't until Harry came and told her that they wouldn't be going back to Hogwarts in September with her, that he and Ron were accepting positions as Aurors in the Ministry, that she finally left.

She had to see her boys off, after all.

Ron kissed her on the cheek, his eyes aglow with excitement. Harry only gave her a hug, but it was one of his best. She understood. He had to help the Ministry; there were other Death Eaters out there, ones that needed to be brought back to face their crimes. If you asked her, Harry had done enough. But the look he gave her said that he didn't think so.

_"_ _You'll be okay there without us, yes?"_

_"_ _Of course, Harry."_

_"_ _Yeah, of course!" Ron grinned widely, his gigantic backpack doing nothing to weigh down his mood. "Mate, she had to drag_ us _around in school. Without us there, she'll be the brightest witch of the century!"_

_"_ _I guess that's true," Harry chuckled. His laugh quickly died away as Ron walked out of the Burrow, eager to get to London, leaving just the two of them._

_"_ _You swear you'll be okay?"_

_"_ _Yes."_

_"_ _And you'll write as much as you can?"_

_"_ _Yes."_

_"_ _And you'll cheer for Gryffindor at the Quidditch matches?"_

_"_ _When have I done differently?"_

_Harry smiled then. "I thought we'd lost you for a second, Hermione."_

_"_ _What do you mean?"_

_"_ _You never just say 'yes' to anything."_

He'd given her the briefest smile before apparating away with Ron. It reminded her of Mona Lisa's smile. Every time she'd left Ginny's room before they left, his emerald eyes were always searching as he gave her that Mona Lisa smile. Hermione had long since given up trying to figure out what he was searching for, let alone give him an answer to it. She didn't have answers to much these days.

Brightest witch of the century, her ass.

The truth was Hermione didn't talk to people much then because she felt left behind. When she walked out of Ginny's room at the end of July, she felt that everyone was rushing past her, like cars on the freeway going however many kilometers per hour, while she stayed completely still. Like everyone was moving on, and she wasn't. It was strange to hear Fleur and Bill talk about children, when she had spent only two months prior becoming quite amicable with the thought of death. Most often it was of those she loved, but after the night in Malfoy Manor, her own death skyrocketed to number one inhabitant of Hermione Granger's private thoughts.

And now she was here. On the train. It was August 31st, nearly four months after the Battle of Hogwarts, and Hermione Granger was not only not dead, but was surrounded by the not dead friends she loved as well. Sometimes they only surrounded her with letters, but it was enough.

"Can I have your chocolate frog box?"

Resting her head against the glass window made her head bounce, and it made her body throb. She was two seconds away from calling it quits on sleeping.

"I suppose. Why do you want it?"

"I want to throw something."

"Where?"

"No, Luna, I want to play catch by myself."

"Oh. Here, I'm sure you'll enjoy the collector card."

Hermione saw the box get tossed cattycorner to Ginny in the corner of her eye. The redhead was laying across the seats on the other side of the cabin, positively bored but keeping it to herself at her and Luna's request. She opened the box only to grin devilishly.

"Hermione, you'll never guess who I got."

She sighed, not intending to answer at all.

"Hermione, you'll never guess who I got."

"I don't think she intends on answering you, Ginny."

"Hermione, you'll never guess who I go—"

" _Merlin_ , who did you get? I swear you're as bad as your brother."

"You mean the one that likes you?"

"Who did you get?"

"Because he writes all the time saying he misses you _dearly_ —"

Hermione huffed, and practically ripped herself away from the window to glare at Ginny. The other girl simply smiled wider.

"Who did you get?"

Ginny sat up, biting her lip as she leaned forward. "I got Harry."

"Wonderful!" Luna clapped quietly, a soft smile on her face.

"Didn't you know?" Hermione turned so that her back was to the window and she was facing the blonde next to her.

"Yes, but I'm happy Ginny reacted the way she did. I thought she would like it."

"It's quite ironic that I got this," Ginny continued. "After all, there really isn't much that I need to know about him now." And then she winked, flipping her hair over her shoulder.

" _Ugh_. Ginny. Please."

"What? It's true! In fact, I would say that I know pretty much _everything_ about him." Ginny leaned in again, her eyes mischievous. "The pillow talk is spectacular, if I do say so myself."

" _Ginny_!"

"Perhaps you should update the card?" Luna cocked her head innocently, and Hermione shot her a glare.

"Don't encourage her! I don't want to hear about this!"

"You don't want to hear about Harry's lengthy di—?"

The train abruptly stopped, the whistle screaming. Ginny yelped, and fell forward on the cabin floor, her face catching her. Hermione couldn't help but let out a bark of laughter, and Luna looked equally amused.

"I'm sorry, what was that?"

Ginny rolled onto her back, clutching her nose as tears spilled unwillingly down her face. "I was going to say lengthy _discussions_ , Hermione, get your head out of the gutter." The Weasley girl groaned into her hands. "I think I broke my nose."

"Here, this may sting a bit."

Hermione slowly took Ginny's hands away from her face, surveying an extremely crooked and slightly bloody nose. She took out her wand, bringing it to the broken bone.

" _Episkey_!"

With a small crack and another yelp from Ginny, her nose was well. "Merlin," she moaned, getting up from the floor and grabbing her luggage from the overhead bin. "Mum is going to freak when she finds out that I've already broken something."

"Why would you tell her?" Luna asked.

"Only because she'd find out regardless. I swear she has spies."

Hermione giggled as she grabbed her suitcase before following the other two out of the cabin. She was a little surprised; she wasn't expecting to be in such a good mood upon arriving to Hogwarts. In fact, she was even looking forward to seeing the other returning members of her year.

"Is there any particular reason why you ladies have decided to hold up the entirety of Hogwarts' future alumni in this godforsaken train?

Hermione bristled, whirling to see a mop of mousey brown curls that would probably rival her own if they weren't "properly" taken care of, and a slime green tie. It was unfortunate that curls were a wonderful look on him, and that Slytherin house steered clear of slime green color coordination.

"Nott," she gritted.

"Granger," he matched. "I should have guessed you'd be back. Thirst for knowledge and all that trite." He motioned to the exit of the train with his chin. "Will you three be chatting it up as the train leaves, or can you lead the way?"

"It's not trite to want to know things. Maybe you'd actually find something useful to do besides torment people on a train."

"Oh, I'm sorry, I suppose I meant that you had a thirst for bullshit, then. Lead on, hero to all."

"Theo, why have you stopped in the middle of the hallway? I want to find the other two before dinner."

Daphne Greengrass stuck out her head from behind Theodore Nott's arm, her sweet, twinkling voice stopping only as she made eye contact with Hermione. She pushed a strand of perfectly straight caramel hair (that wasn't even out of place, as far as Hermione could tell) behind her ear, snapping her mouth shut immediately.

"I'm sorry, dear," Theo exaggerated. He leaned in closer to Hermione, his eyes narrowing. "Granger still has a hero-boner and all that _trite_ , and is feeling the need to hold up the entire—ow!"

Daphne smacked the back of his head, causing him to jump and face her incredulously, his hand rubbing at the red spot already forming under his hair.

"What was that for?!"

"Let's just go," Ginny muttered, grabbing Hermione by the arm as the two Slytherins began bickering quietly outside their cabin. She quickly grabbed her suitcase, following Ginny's hard grip out of the train and away from the station. She felt the façade of happiness fading away as they walked further from the Hogwarts Express, reality chipping away at the wall their cabin built around her. The younger children, a lot of whom she didn't and would probably never recognize, stared at the three of them in awe as they weaved through the crowd. Hermione looked at the ground.

She didn't want to be back. She wanted to be in Ginny's room. Not talking. To anyone.

Alone.

"The Wrackspurts are coming back, Hermione," Luna whispered to her, her pale blue eyes wide and concerned.

"The Wrack—excuse me?"

"Wrackspurts. They fly through your ears and cause a lot of mischief. Mostly confusion, but other things too, like sadness and frustration. You've had them a lot recently."

Hermione could only watch her, her mouth open, unable to say a word.

"I—"

"It's okay. A lot of people have them now. Ginny does sometimes."

"I…she does?"

Luna nodded solemnly as they approached a carriage, no longer pulled by itself but by two Thestrals, their black bodies malnourished and skeletal. Hermione tried not to stare at them. She couldn't remember the first person she saw die. A shard of guilt stabbed at her.

"Maybe I'll give you my glasses to see them sometime."

The three of them loaded their luggage into the carriage, Ginny still in a huff over the train. She stared off into the Forbidden Forest, her hair glowing red either in the darkness or due to her anger. Hermione couldn't tell which. She focused back on Luna, who had started reading the latest edition of _The Quibbler_ upside down.

"Luna," she started, nearly afraid to let the girl down. "I don't think Wrackspurts are real. I've never read about them, at least."

Luna frowned. "That's strange," she relented. But then she smiled, her eyes bright. "How could I have my glasses then? I wouldn't need them if they didn't exist."

Hermione opened her mouth, but found she had nothing to say. Instead, she sighed, folding her arms across her chest and staring at the opposite end of the Forbidden Forest as Ginny. The Thestrals began to climb up the hill towards the castle. Towards Hogwarts.

"Theodore and Daphne have Wrackspurts too, you know," Luna commented distantly. Hermione almost didn't hear it. "They are less when they don't fight, though."

"How could you possibly know that?" Hermione snapped. She instantly regretted it, whipping her gaze to the younger girl apologetically. Luna didn't seem to notice the flare of anger, though. She merely smiled before turning her attention back to _The Quibbler._

"You'll see."

* * *

The only thing that Hermione could see was that it would be a terrible school year. She watched miserably as Ginny and Neville guffawed over each of their summers, paying attention enough to notice that both steered clear of any topic that conversationally lead to the war. She was happy to see him; Neville grew into himself since May. Somehow, he'd gotten even taller, and Hermione guessed that he knew more about Herbology than she did about any other subject. He was excited about the new year, and she was excited to see him.

He was the only other Gryffindor from their year to return, though. Hermione almost laughed at the irony of it all. Perhaps she wasn't the only one lacking in Gryffindor courage recently. She couldn't even blame them: she almost didn't come back herself. The other houses saw similar return rates. Hannah Abbott, the only Hufflepuff, was watching as Ginny and Neville began to argue about Professor Sprout (if Ginny calling the woman a "plant hag" and Neville spluttering in protest could be considered arguing) with interest. Padma Patil and Michael Corner were huddled together closely at the end of the Ravenclaw table, clearly whispering to each other as they picked at their food.

Hermione glared at the far end of the Great Hall. The three returning Slytherins had to be a cruel twist of fate. Daphne Greengrass's shoulders were shaking with laughter as Pansy Parkinson poked at Theodore Nott's chest, her black bob viciously pluming around her head as he got what was sure to be the talking to of a lifetime. Theo was trying – and failing – to slowly slide away from her, his face contorted in horror. Hermione could barely see him pleading for Daphne to do something.

"What were the odds that they all came back, do you think?"

Hermione blinked, seeing Ginny scoot across the bench and into her line of sight, and stabbed at her Shepherd's pie. "A million to one, I'd say," she muttered bitterly.

Ginny hummed in agreement, picking up her glass of pumpkin juice and sipping slowly.

"Where did Neville go?" Hermione asked, hoping for a change in subject.

"He's over at the Hufflepuff table. I told him to talk to Hannah Abbott before she bore holes into my skull."

Hermione tilted her head around Ginny, seeing that Neville was just sitting down. He was fiddling with his fingers manically, and Hannah was playing with her plaited, blonde hair, but they both had wildly stupid grins on their faces.

"How long do you think that'll last?" Hermione asked.

"If she's anything like him, probably forever. He'd never break up with anyone…he's too sweet."

"They're dating already?"

"No. They've been 'corresponding' since July."

Hermione scrunched up her nose, looking up from her food with a frown on her face. Ginny only shrugged.

"His words, not mine."

Silence fell between them. The dull murmur of the other students seemed to buzz in Hermione's ear. She looked up to the Slytherin table again. The three of them were now poking at their food, and Daphne kept looking to the entrance at their right, her back still turned to Hermione. Theo cocked his head slightly, his eyebrows thrown up in an expression of someone who had their hands tied as he spoke. Pansy immediately rounded on him, her eyes narrowing dangerously as she got in his face.

"You won't be able to hear better by staring at them, Hermione."

She jumped, Ginny's face coming back into view. "I was just curious," she answered. "They were having a time a minute ago."

"It's probably about Malfoy."

Hermione stilled, flicking her gaze back to her food. How could she have forgotten about him? It was either come back to finish his education at Hogwarts, or rot in the waste of space he called a home with his mother for five years. She remembered Harry and Ron discussing his sentence. Ron said it wasn't fair. Harry said that it was probably more than enough, considering what he'd have to deal with if he did come back. Hermione hadn't said anything at all.

"What about him?" she asked neutrally.

"I don't know. He's not here though."

"He didn't have to be."

"I heard his mother was making him."

"From whom, Pansy Parkinson?"

"Hermione, you don't have to be on the defense all the time."

Her fork clattered to her plate, the sound ringing through the Great Hall. She pursed her lips, her chin jutting out slightly.

"I'm not on the defense all the time."

"Oh please, don't bother," Ginny hissed. "Ever since you came out of my room, you've closed yourself off. Maybe you started talking again, but you haven't said a word about anything that's happened to you. You won't even talk about your par—"

"I don't want to talk about them," Hermione blurted nervously, her hand coming up in protest.

"Okay, fine, but not everyone's out to get you!"

"I never said they were!"

"What about today on the train? Theo was only pointing out that we were holding up the entire hallway. You didn't need to get snippy with him."

"He got snippy with _me_!"

"Only 'cause you did it first!"

Ginny sat back, breathing heavily. Her face was as red as her hair. Hermione could only glare back, her mouth open in shock.

"Look," Ginny said, deflating. "I know things have been hard for you. Things have been hard on all of us. But you don't have to be strong all the time. You have me…you can talk to me about anything. And people change after…things like what happened, happen. Theo might have been a right prat about it, but he wasn't tormenting us. At least at first, anyways."

Hermione smiled at her concession despite herself, and Ginny returned it. "I just want you to know that you're not going to turn a corner into another war," she continued. "You can let things go and…and move on."

Hermione tapped at her plate, her appetite long gone. She knew that Ginny was right. Some days, she could feel herself letting everything go, and everyone else seemed to notice. Harry would stop searching for whatever he needed to find. Ginny would tease her about Ron. Mrs. Weasley would ask for her help with dinner. But then it would come back. The number one inhabitant of Hermione Granger's private thoughts.

_What if I die today?_

She looked at Ginny, who was watching her expectantly. "I'm sorry," she whispered. "I can't yet."

Hermione stood then, the otherwise empty bench scraping across the floor, and fled to the Gryffindor tower.


	2. Chapter 2

* * *

2

_"Only the dead have seen the end of war."_

_Plato_

* * *

Hermione scowled at the ground, feeling sorry for herself. She walked all the way to the seventh floor only to stare the Fat Lady directly in the face, her mind blank. She didn't know the password to the common room yet, and the Fat Lady was being impossible, stating that if she let her in without a password, then she'd have to let _everyone_ in without a password.

"Like spending seven years in the same dormitory doesn't mean something," Hermione muttered to herself, kicking a rock just outside the castle doors with all her might. She stalked off to the right, following the neat gravel path to the Black Lake. The sun was just passing the horizon, the orange hue of the sky quickly turning to a darker purple with a dusting of stars. As she approached, she could hear the lake's slow waves lapping at the rocky shore, even though the lake itself looked completely still. Now at the edge, Hermione folded her arms across her chest, never taking her eyes off the blacker than black abyss. She couldn't have seen the giant squid if she wanted to.

"Not that you even exist anyway," she whispered to the lake, as if the squid could hear her. She sat on the grass, folding her robes so that they covered her skirt, and began pulling at the single blade that was already tickling her fingers. A light breeze blew into her, traveling from the other end of the lake, and the wisps of hair that weren't secured in her low bun wildly flailed around her face. She could hear the Whomping Willow sigh deeply around the other side of the castle, the rustling of its leaves barely there against crickets that began to ring out as the sun continued to set.

Hermione thought that this was as good a place as any to cry. But she couldn't. The last time she cried was at Malfoy Manor, when Bellatrix pressed against her entire body and cackled into her ear enough to deafen her for a week. Hermione instinctively touched her left forearm, feeling the letters scarred into her skin underneath her robes. She didn't remember a lot of that day, if she was being honest. After she was knocked to the cold, dark floor, it was just a bunch of sensations: the salty taste of tears, Bellatrix's hot, stinking breath against her face, the running of blood down her arm. According to Ron, she stopped crying after they showed up at Shell Cottage.

She sighed. _At least you lived_ , she thought. Few made it out when Bellatrix was involved. She should consider herself lucky, regardless if she could cry or not.

Something whizzed by her head, nearly grazing her cheek, and Hermione gasped, her shoulders tensing involuntarily. She tore her gaze away from the grass and out to the lake, barely catching the ripples of a skipping rock before it sunk beneath the black water. It reminded her of Ron, and how he showed her how to skip rocks after they broke into Gringotts. Except Ron wasn't here, and he couldn't skip a rock that well if he tried.

Hermione whirled to face behind her, not sure who to expect. She hoped Ginny came to find her so she wouldn't have to mope next to a lake for the rest of the evening, but the person she saw instead made much more sense. After all, Ginny wouldn't try to knock her head off with a rock. She clenched her jaw, ripping multiple blades of grass out of the ground in frustration.

"Isn't it against your parole to jeopardize others, Malfoy?"

"Don't be daft, Granger," he drawled, his voice quiet yet carrying across the lawn easily. He stuffed his hands in his black dress pants and began walking towards her. "Your head got in the way."

Hermione narrowed her eyes, studying him as he approached. Unlike Neville, Malfoy looked exactly like she remembered him. His platinum hair was glowing now that the sky was darker, no longer pasted to his scalp but slightly unkempt and tousled, as it had been when he walked across the courtyard ruins to stand with his parents months ago. He still had the angular mess of negative emotions that he called a face, and without his school robes she could clearly see the lean, tall figure he'd acquired through years of playing Seeker. In fact, Hermione was _almost_ peeved that his stride still carried the confidence of someone who knew they were a git and loved every minute of it. Almost, because she noticed his black eye last.

That was new.

"Merlin, what happened to your eye?"

Malfoy abruptly stopped a few feet in front of her, his face incredulous. "Did you lose braincells over the summer, then?"

Hermione flinched. "You know what, maybe I did," she gritted out, forcing herself off the ground. "I certainly expected to have a decent conversation with _you_ , as if that could ever happen."

"Right, because I'm a git and a ferret and an arse kisser. It's not like you're much better," he sneered back. "A bossy, self-righteous, annoying little—"

"Mudblood, right?!"

Malfoy immediately reared back, his lips pressing together in a thin line. Hermione could feel the air around her beginning to pop, like tiny firecrackers bursting around her. "That's all I am, aren't I?!" She was yelling now, her anger flaring like gasoline meeting a flame. "You made sure to drill that one into me, Malfoy, and let me tell you, it was a _fantastic_ job well done. I'm sure Daddy is proud!"

"Granger—"

"I guess I should have expected this from you, though. Even now that the war's over and Daddy's in Azkaban and I _fucking_ got _tortured_ in your own parl—!"

"I was going to say brat!"

Hermione stopped, holding her breath as he threw his hands in the air, his face desperate enough that she guessed he'd do anything to shut her up. He brought the heels of his hands to his forehead, making sure to avoid his black eye as he took a deep breath. For a moment he stood there, his eyes squeezed shut as if he was warding off a bad dream. Then, his arms dropped to his sides. He considered her for a second, looking drained.

"Not that that's much better," he admitted.

Hermione held his eye contact, acutely aware of her heart beginning to fill with lead, slowing the beats that seemed to roar through her head like a rollercoaster car. A decent part of her thought she should apologize. The rest of her screamed to hex him into oblivion and leave him in the lake for the giant squid. Even if it wasn't real, there was a possibility he'd drown before morning, and she could live with never seeing him again. A fair punishment, to be sure. Ron would be ecstatic.

"Your friends are looking for you," she mustered out, her voice hoarse. Without waiting for his response, she started trudging back to the castle, refusing to glance back. She decided a long time ago that in moments like these, it was better to pick middle ground.

* * *

_Hermione,_

_How was the first week of classes? Is it everything you ever hoped? I have to admit, I'm a little jealous that you get to learn more wordless spells. It was always hard, but I think it's one of the coolest things we've ever done. Maybe I've seen too many movies, though. You'll have to teach me sometime soon._

_I heard that only a few people from our class came back. Are Neville and Hannah Abbott really 'corresponding?' Ginny said they were in her last letter, but I'm inclined to think otherwise. She tends to exaggerate, and I'm not quite sure what 'corresponding' means. I hope Ginny and Luna are good company. It'll never beat me and Ron, but those girls are a handful themselves. Is Ginny taking advantage of you yet?_

_Auror training is going great. I'm really enjoying it, and Ron actually is too. I was afraid he wouldn't, but I think he's even better at it than I am. Maybe you were right that I should take a break. We're going to be given our own assignments soon. Of course, I can't tell you everything once we do, but you're smart enough to fill in any details._

_I know you know it, and hate hearing it, but I worry about you. Ron does too. He's afraid to write you, but I told him to suck it up. Write back soon, okay? I know how busy you are, but you aren't allowed to not write me back. Don't forget to cheer for Gryffindor next week._

_Harry_

Hermione stared at Harry's letter, rereading it over and over again. It was sweet of him, really. She couldn't remember the last time he wrote a letter before her. He even used her own line against her, in his own way. When they were younger, she always included the threat of lost friendship if he didn't write her back at the start of every summer. She doubted that loss of friendship was on the table anymore, but the sentiment was there. Hermione sighed, staring at her own foot of parchment, her quill lying dry beside it.

_Dear Harry,_

_Class is going_

_All my love, Hermione_

She groaned and slammed her forehead against the desk. For the past four days, she found herself skipping lunch to stare at the piece of parchment before her, unable to write. Every time she tried to form a coherent sentence, it sounded like Rita Skeeter's rhetoric: false and unconvincing. It wasn't as if she wanted to lie to Harry; she just didn't want to tell him the truth. She didn't know how to tell him that she hadn't expected much out of the year to begin with. Sitting through class was nearly pointless, as she perfected as much as she could of the seventh-year material while searching for Horcruxes last year. And she absolutely refused to admit that screaming at Draco Malfoy a week and a half ago was the most interesting thing to happen yet.

It all came down to her inability to admit that she had absolutely no idea why she came back at all. When asked at the Burrow, she plastered a smile on her face and explained that she wanted to take her N.E.W.T.s and do some good in the world. But even then, Hermione had no clue what specific type of good she wanted to do. If asked before the war, her answer was simple: land a job working for the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures and completely redesign the system to ensure the proper care of magical beings until she retired and died. She even had full filing cabinets in her room at home with plans to that effect.

Hermione squinted her eyes shut and clenched her teeth tightly, drawing a hissing breath. _It's not home anymore_ , she thought. She brought her hands up to cover her face and rested her elbows on the desk. It was a nasty habit to break, thinking of home. Home was gone, along with her goals for the Ministry. Perhaps the girl she was before the war was gone too. She felt lost enough.

The dormitory door swung open with a bang. Hermione peeked behind her fingers to see Ginny, still dressed in her Quidditch practice wear. The redhead looked exhausted and shiny with sweat. Upon seeing her though, Ginny smiled brightly.

"Want to hang outside with me and Luna?"

Hermione dropped her hands from her face, frowning. "Weren't you just outside?"

"Yes, but it's a _gorgeous_ day." Ginny tore open her bed curtains and collapsed onto the mattress. "Probably one of the last few before it starts getting cold."

Hermione watched as her roommate pulled off her shoes, an eyebrow raised. She could practically see Ginny dangling bait in front of her.

"I was planning on studying this afternoon."

"For what?!" Ginny's head snapped up, her mouth open in apparent disbelief. Upon seeing Hermione's jutted chin and pursed lips, her face relaxed into an innocent grin.

"Luna was going to as well. You should just come! There's almost no breeze, so you won't have to chase your papers around. And you can help me with my Charms essay."

Hermione bit her lip, but couldn't help the smile splitting onto her face. "Harry asked if you had started taking advantage of me yet."

Ginny's face began to fall ever so slightly, her brown eyes pooling with worry. "Have you gotten farther on the letter?" she asked quietly.

Hermione sighed and shook her head. Ginny nodded once, her eyebrows furrowing as she ripped off her forearm guards. Then, she looked up again, a hopeful look on her face. "Well," she started, her head cocking roguishly. "If you come outside with us, it'll take your mind off things. You might even have something to write about after."

Hermione rolled her eyes and scoffed. "You just don't know when to quit, do you?" After holding Ginny's expectant gaze for a few moments more, she finally nodded and got up to grab her things.

"Yes! I knew I could convince you!" Ginny rushed to her and gave her a bone crushing hug. Hermione couldn't help but laugh. "It'll be fun, I promise," the girl continued. "It's such a nice day, I couldn't bear to leave you in here for another minute. Let me finish changing, and we can meet Luna in front of the Ravenclaw common room."

"You already told Luna to meet us?"

Ginny flipped her long hair over her shoulder. "I knew you'd come. Like I said, I can be very convincing," she teased, and winked.

* * *

With the sky a brilliant blue and the sun barely peeking out behind pure, fluffy clouds, Hermione had to admit that it was a beautiful day. The three girls set up camp below a large oak tree, its shade providing the perfect chill. Ginny's robe and tie were long since abandoned, as was her schoolwork. After receiving Hermione's blessing on her Charms essay, she was intent on bothering the other two with the latest gossip on the rest of the student body. Hermione didn't bother commenting – quite frankly, she couldn't care less about how close Michael Corner and Padma were sitting during Transfiguration – leaving Luna to politely comment when needed. The Ravenclaw's work had been forgotten a while ago as well, in favor of her ridiculous glasses that Hermione would never borrow, regardless of the other girl's insistence.

Instead, Hermione was looking at the leaves above them. She would never admit it, but her reading on the dissolving of the Wizards' Council was cast aside too. It was review anyway, and everything about it was engrained into her mind years ago. The leaves were much more interesting to her. She could barely see hues of yellow in their veins, and the slight browning of their ends. She couldn't remember the last time she caught the leaves turning color; it had been a long time since she slowed down to notice. Her father always told her to pay attention when the seasons began to change.

_"You see the buds appearing on the branches, Hermione?"_

_"I don't see anything."_

_"Look closely, pumpkin."_

_Hermione squinted at the tree they were standing under. After a moment, she did see. There were millions of roundish, fuzzy sprouting's on the very ends of the branches. She looked up at her father, smiling brightly._

_"I see them!"_

_Her father chuckled, bending down to be closer to her. "You have to keep an eye out for these things. Life goes on all around us, and if you don't take a second to notice, everything goes by far too quickly."_

_"I want things to go quickly, Daddy. I want to be big like you!"_

_He smiled, his eyes crinkling in the corners ever so slightly. "I know, pumpkin. But when you get to be big like me, you'll wish you stopped to notice the little things. Next thing you know, all of these trees will be bursting with leaves, and you won't remember what winter looked like."_

A vibrantly green leaf fell with a light gust of wind, floating gently until it landed at Hermione's feet. She watched as it feathered up and down with the breeze a bit more, threatening to take off flying again, and bit her lip.

"Hullo, earth to Hermione!"

She immediately perked up, facing Ginny. "What? What is it?"

"Michael Corner and Padma. Thoughts?"

"Merlin, you're still on this?" Hermione rolled her eyes and pulled her reading back into her lap. "What's there to think?"

"I think they've got something funny going on. What, they talk to no one else and pretend they're the only ones who exist?" Ginny pressed her lips together, shaking her head as if the two were committing some moral crime. "I bet they're snogging in corridors."

"Perhaps they're only study buddies," Luna suggested, twisting at her earrings. They were purple Snitches that glittered when the sunlight hit them. "I heard they both want to be lawyers. You need good N.E.W.T.s for that."

"Oh please, study buddies don't act like that. I should know, I tried to tell Ron that about Dean Thomas in fourth year. Even he wasn't buying it."

"So what if they're snogging in corridors?" Hermione probed. "It's their business, not ours. I don't even remember them being particularly close."

"I swear you don't understand how to gossip, Hermione. That's the _point_! I want to _know_!"

"Maybe she just needs a friend because she misses Parvati," Luna said quietly. Silence grew thick between the three of them. The fact of the matter was, Parvati hadn't been ready to come back. Hermione looked up at the leaves, intent on forgetting how the girl wailed as Lavender Brown's body was brought into the Great Hall. How Padma could only hug her sister for hours, seeing nothing over her head.

"Maybe," Ginny whispered.

It wasn't until an object hit Ginny in the face that they all came to again. Hermione jumped back in shock, her book flying into the grass somewhere behind her. The object landed in front of Luna, and promptly began to growl like _The Monster Book of Monsters_ they were required to carry in third year. Luna's eyes widened like saucers.

"What in the bloody hell was that?!" Ginny screeched. She reached to possibly manhandle the growling object, only for it to snarl and nip at her hand. She yelped, and all three girls promptly backed away from under their tree, watching the object closely. It was circular, and upon inspection, had a sharp row of teeth around its perimeter and glowing orange eyes near one end that blinked angrily behind lime green lids. Hermione frowned. It looked a bit familiar.

"Wait!" Ginny bellowed. Her arms outstretched, she went to take a closer look at the object. As Hermione was about to object that her face was much to close to the dangerous thing, Ginny straightened. "This is George's!" She exclaimed. "He sells it at the store!"

"What is it?" Luna asked curiously, kneeling to observe the thing, albeit at a great distance.

"It's a Fanged Flyer," Ginny said, her anger quickly dissolving into awe. "Mum never let me get near one. George had bites and scratches for weeks after he had the idea to sell it."

"What does it _do_?" Hermione asked, her face screwed up in confusion. Knowing George, it probably wasn't anything productive.

"It's like a Muggle frisbee."

Suddenly, the familiarity of the object made sense. She had her own frisbee a long time ago, nearly the same color as the creature in front of her. Hermione took a step closer to it, only to back away further at its monstrous snarl. "I don't remember frisbees being particularly bloodthirsty," she said slowly.

"That's what makes this one fun."

Hermione looked up to come face to face with Theodore Nott for the second time too many that year. After seeing all three girls round on him, he slowly held up his hands in mock surrender, a smirk sliding onto his face. "Good afternoon, ladies. Wonderful to see you again. Sorry about your face." He gestured to Ginny, not appearing at all sorry.

"How did you get one of these?" Ginny's eyes were alight with excitement, which was never a good sign. Bad ideas tended to hatch whenever she was excited.

"Oh, I simply had it imported across thousands of different countries to Scotland. That's why he's so riled up. Apparating makes them jumpy." Theo dropped his hands, his playful air gone. "I bought it, you twit."

Hermione bristled, taking a step towards him only to be blocked by Ginny's hand, who rolled her eyes. "I meant, how did you get one _here_? They're not allowed at Hogwarts." She paused, flipping her hair and folding her arms across her chest. "I guess a dimwitted Slytherin wouldn't catch that, though."

Theo's eyes narrowed, his head cocking to the side slightly. Hermione's hand found her wand just under the waistband of her skirt, prepared for anything. She'd hex him to the ground if she had to. But instead of throwing a spell at Ginny, or even opening his mouth to insult her back, his face split into a brilliant smile. Hermione stilled, dumbfounded. What was even worse, Ginny smiled back.

In another set of baffling events, Theo picked up the Fanged Flyer with a gloved hand, which prevented the monster from tearing his fingers to shreds, and offered it to Ginny.

"Care to join? I don't have much competition over there." He pointed a thumb behind him, and as if living in her own nightmare, Hermione looked beyond to see Malfoy casually watching them from afar. Daphne and Pansy were sitting on the ground near him, clearly trying to engage him in whatever conversation they were having. He was ignoring them.

Ginny jutted her chin. "I take games seriously, Nott. I guarantee you won't beat me."

"I've seen you play Quidditch, devil woman. _I_ guarantee that it will be fun for us to try." Theo winked, and started walking in the other direction. Ginny began to follow.

"Ginny!" Hermione blurted, finally finding her voice. "What are you doing?!"

The redhead stopped, turning with an innocent look on her face. "I'm going to play frisbee with Theo and Malfoy," she said slowly.

" _Excuse_ me?!" Hermione was incredulous. "How can you play frisbee with _them_? They've antagonized us all our lives, they were on the wrong side, and they are possibly the worst human beings that I've ever met!"

Instead of arguing like Hermione expected, Ginny merely sighed. "So two eighteen-year-old boys are worse than Voldemort, then?"

Hermione's mouth snapped shut. Because of course they weren't. Her gaze became unfocused as her thoughts swam, trying to come up with some defense. Ginny took a couple steps toward her and placed her hands on her shoulders.

"People change, Hermione," she whispered gently. "And even if they haven't, we can give them a second chance to prove they can." She squeezed her shoulders for a second, before turning away to catch up to Theo, who was staring at them impassively. Hermione sniffed, and for one of the few times in her life, decided to act before she thought rationally.

She started stalking after them, blowing past Ginny with a shove of her shoulder and quickly catching up with Theo. "Give me the Fanged Flyer, Nott," she growled, her hand outstretched expectantly.

"Hermione, what are you doing?!" Ginny exclaimed. Hermione could hear her run forward and shot a menacing glare the other girl's way, stopping her in her tracks. Theo slowly turned around, an eyebrow raised as he clutched the Fanged Flyer defensively.

"Have you been yearning to lose a hand recently, Granger? Because that's what will happen if I give it to you."

"Give me your handling gloves too, then," she answered quickly.

Theo squared his shoulders, allowing a small, slightly uncomfortable grin. "If you wanted to play too, Granger, you should have just asked."

"I would _never_ ," she hissed. She straightened, pursing her lips. "Fanged Flyers are forbidden on Hogwarts grounds, and since you are in possession of one, you are in violation of the attendance policies of Hogwarts School and due for punishment." She reached out further with her hand, her palm extended. "Give me the Fanged Flyer, or I will report you to Professor McGonagall."

"What the fuck is your problem, Granger?" Theo snapped.

"Hand it over!"

"Hermione, stop it!" Ginny pleaded, trying to pull her away by the shoulder. "It's just a game!"

"It is not!" Hermione yelled, rounding on Ginny. "It's Slytherins who have done nothing but ridicule and bully us for years on end and I will not stand for it! They don't deserve to get away with things anymore!" She whipped back to Theo, ignoring that his scowl did nothing to hide a flash of hurt behind his eyes. "Give it to me, _now_!" Hermione ordered.

The muscles over Theo's jaw twitched, and his perfect curls blew in a sudden strong breeze. He leaned in so close that Hermione could see the specks of green illuminated with fury in his hazel eyes, and the light freckles sprinkled across his nose.

"Fuck. You," he whispered.

Hermione reared back, her fingernails cutting into her palm as she made the tightest fist of her life. Everything seemed to happen in slow motion. She heard Ginny shouting at her, pleading for her to stop. She could even hear Luna's rushing footsteps in the grass behind them. Theo's eyebrows reached his hairline and he started to back away from her with gangly steps, but not quickly enough. Hermione couldn't lie; it would be the second-best punch of her life.

But it never happened. There was a flash of nearly white hair in the corner of her eye, and then her arm was restrained by someone much, much taller than her. She struggled against his grip, nearly breaking free until he stepped in between her and Theo, his other hand shooting out to push back against her shoulder. Hermione glared up into his cold, pale eyes, seething.

"Don't," Malfoy muttered darkly.

For some reason, she didn't. She relaxed against him, and he let her go hesitantly, stepping back to reveal Theo closing his eyes, a sigh of relief running through him. The Fanged Flyer growled against his chest.

"Theo, give me the stupid thing," Malfoy said, breaking the silence. He held out his own gloved hand, never taking his eyes off Hermione.

"Draco—"

"Give it!"

Theo glared at him, somehow holding the Fanged Flyer even closer to him protectively. "I paid five galleons for this thing, Draco!"

"We don't need to turn it in," Luna interrupted hesitantly, coming to stand next to Hermione. "We can all keep quiet about it, can't we?"

Hermione glanced at Luna, whose powder blue eyes were already on her, the Wrackspurt glasses long gone. Her heart stilled, threatening to drop to her stomach. She recognized the look on Luna's face.

Disappointment.

"I don't need Granger's knickers getting in a twist," Malfoy said stiffly, his tone rich with finality on the matter. He ripped the Fanged Flyer from Theo's hands, and set his stormy gaze on her. "I'll need an escort to the Headmistress' office." He addressed Hermione, the permanent disdain on his face somehow deeper. "We wouldn't want Slytherins getting away with anything, would we?"

Hermione felt her anger dissolve into thin air. Passing too closely for comfort, Malfoy started walking towards the castle. She didn't want to go but turned to anyway. Her gaze settled on Ginny, who was staring at the ground, her hands balled at her sides.

"Ginny…" Hermione said softly.

"Just go," she shot out.

So she did, following Malfoy's retreating form inside.

* * *

The way up to Professor McGonagall's office was quiet. Malfoy took long strides and had no intention of slowing down, making most of Hermione's focus on keeping up. She thought that his anger was different from anyone else that she was close to. Of herself, she knew that magic cracked around her, making her hair stand on end like she took a static balloon to it. Ron and Ginny had anger that radiated inward like waves, making their cheeks as red as their hair and their eyes alight like a burning stake. Even Harry's anger was hot; the room would warm up, making everyone swelter as he sat and fumed. Harry didn't often blow up, but it was easiest to tell when he was angry.

Malfoy was cold. She shivered next to him, folding her arms across her chest. Nothing on his face remotely gave away that he was angry, but she knew that Hogwarts wasn't this cold, especially when approaching the middle of September. It was like he was sucking anything positive towards him and stuffing it into a bottle, never to see the light of day again. Hermione decided that she liked cold anger the least. It seemed the most selfish.

She looked up at him, noticing that his eye was now circled only by hues of dull greens and yellows, reminding her of the oak tree's leaves outside. She could tell that the injury had been sped along magically, but the caster hadn't been very experienced in healing spells. Not that that was surprising; even the easiest of healing spells were complicated, and they weren't taught in any Hogwarts curriculum. That was why Healers needed extra training.

Malfoy flicked his gaze to hers, noticing that she was noticing him. She threw her own to the floor, admitting to staring at him.

They continued on, reaching the Grand Staircase and pausing on the steps, waiting for them to move. Malfoy leaned against the right railing, while she stood immobile to the left, as far away from him as possible. The stairs around them began to rumble and move, the scraping of stone loud in her ears as a path was made to the third floor. No other students were around. Even the portraits were silent, watching them carefully.

"Daphne healed it," he said, his voice reverberating against the tall ceilings. The staircase they were on settled to a stop, and he began to climb, his long legs requiring him to take two at a time. Hermione scrambled after him, wondering if it was possible for him to read minds. She didn't know much about Legilimency – other than what little research she did for Harry years ago – because the subject frightened her. She certainly didn't want to find out if Malfoy practiced it.

"I didn't ask," she finally answered quietly.

"You wanted to."

She bit her lip, opting to look at the portraits that frowned at them curiously rather than admit that he was right. She didn't dare open her mouth to affirm him, nor to ask the thousand other questions swimming through her mind. How did Daphne heal it? Why didn't he go to Madame Pomfrey, or heal it himself? Why didn't he cover it with a glamour charm?

It was hard to fight her natural need to know. It was like an itch that screamed for a scratch; if she waited long enough, she'd burst at the seams.

Silence spun between them again. They approached the gargoyle that protected the Headmistresses' quarters with only the sharp clacking of Malfoy's black, dragonhide shoes echoing through the corridor. The gargoyle watched them, its stony gaze somehow alive and oppressive. Hermione stepped forward.

"Tabby housecat."

The gargoyle pushed itself upwards, its wings unfolding and twisting to reveal a spiral staircase upwards. Malfoy looked down at her and raised an eyebrow.

"What?"

"It's a pretty obvious password."

"She wanted it to be. Support for students, I guess."

Malfoy nodded once, his grey eyes glowing like moonlight. Hermione padded softly to the steps and began the climb, her legs beginning to burn from the extended amount of walking around the castle.

Professor McGonagall's office was much cleaner than Dumbledore's. There weren't any extraneous books, papers, or candies anywhere; everything had its place, and everything was tidy. The walls were now decorated with clean rows and columns of past Headmasters in various states of sleep, as opposed to the mismatched frame sizes and crooked placement of previous years. Directly across from the entrance was Dumbledore's portrait, larger than the rest. Upon seeing them walk in, he tilted his head downward in greeting, his eyes somehow twinkling behind the canvas.

Below Dumbledore's portrait was the desk, and at the desk was Professor McGonagall. The older woman looked the same as Hermione remembered, much like many of the people she was close to before the war. Her wide brimmed, pointy hat swayed as she wrote, and her black robes shimmered green as she moved in the light. The woman looked up as they walked further into the office, her face as pinched as ever.

"Good afternoon Miss Granger, Mister Malfoy," McGonagall said smoothly, although her furrowed brow betrayed her confusion at seeing them together. "Is there something I can help you with?"

"I…well," Hermione started, wringing her hands nervously. For once in her life, she had no idea what to say. Malfoy sighed impatiently next to her, throwing his eyes to the ceiling, which only succeeded in making her more anxious about the fact. Professor McGonagall raised her eyebrows expectantly.

"Um, well…it became apparent that, erm—"

"Granger caught me with a Fanged Flyer, Professor," Malfoy interrupted. He held the green circle forward, ignoring its snarling at the sudden movement. "She was making sure that I turned it in properly to you."

Hermione whirled, her eyebrows knitting. While it wasn't terribly far from the truth, it was a first to see Malfoy pass up a chance to sell someone out. Professor McGonagall studied them both, the ticking of the clock through the room seeming awfully slow.

"I see," the Headmistress said shortly. "You understand that it's against attendance policy to bring one of these on the grounds, Mister Malfoy?"

"I do."

"And you understand that violating any policies of this school is against of your probation, yes?"

Malfoy stiffened slightly. "I do."

Professor McGonagall finally rose from her desk and approached them. Malfoy dropped the Fanged Flyer on the ground and gave his handling glove to her, and she crouched to pick it up and toss it on a nearby tabletop. It hissed at all three of them, its orange eyes squinting malevolently.

"Considering that you've relented it without a fuss, I'll only consider this a warning," McGonagall said shortly. "You're both dismissed."

"Professor—"

"I am a very busy person, Miss Granger," the woman called behind her back as she went back to her desk. "Unless there is another matter you need to discuss?"

Hermione watched the floor, finding it much more interesting than anything else in the room. "No ma'am."

"Then you're both dismissed."

Malfoy turned swiftly and stalked out of the room. Hermione glared once more at George's infernal product before following quickly behind him. The gargoyle slid to its normal crouching position as they left, its snarl somehow more menacing than before. Malfoy was already halfway down the hallway before she finally worked up the courage to speak.

"Why did you lie?"

"I didn't," he tossed back, never ceasing his retreat.

Hermione broke into a run to catch up with him. "Well, it certainly wasn't true."

His shoes scraped against the stone as he swiveled to tower over her. "Would you rather I had told her _you_ were instigating interhouse rivalry, then?"

"As if you're some champion of doing otherwise," she scoffed.

"I never claimed to be."

Hermione scowled at him, her blood beginning to boil. "You could have been dismissed from the school based on what you said."

"As could anyone with that stupid thing!" He gestured back towards the gargoyle, his mouth turning in frustration.

"Why didn't you let Theo take the fall, then?!"

"Merlin," he hissed, his hands coming up to cover his face. "I thought if I ignored you on the way up here, you wouldn't be daft enough to ask anything. Of course, it just provoked you to say _more_." He dropped his arms, glaring at her. "I don't have to explain myself to you."

"That's rich," Hermione spat, her voice rising. "As if suddenly someone like you could have some change of heart and play frisbee with a Gryffindor. That deserves an explanation if I have something to say about it!"

"You've got a lot of nerve," Malfoy said, suddenly leaning to be eye level with her. His tone dangerously lowered, and she could see his eyes hardening like stone. "Acting as if you're on some high and mighty throne and deserving of every little thing you ask for just because you _won_."

Hermione balked. She could feel her hair beginning to stand on end.

"I am _not_ —"

"Save it for someone who cares, Granger." He turned on his heel, his school robes billowing behind him. "And good luck trying to apologize to Weaslette," he taunted, his voice echoing maliciously behind him. "She looked right pissed at you before we left!"

His ruffled blond hair was the last thing she saw before he went around the corner. Hermione could only stare at the spot where he had been, open mouthed and speechless. She looked down at her hands, noticing with horror that the indents of her fingernails were still present on her palm. _I was going to punch Theo_ , she thought, disdain for no one but herself shooting through her gut like a bullet. _Over nearly nothing at all._

She collapsed to the floor, the cold chilling her to the bone. She clutched her knees to her chest. She couldn't go back to Ginny. She couldn't write to Harry. For Merlin's sake, she couldn't look Luna in the eyes again. She wouldn't even be able to recognize herself if she went to a mirror. Malfoy was right. She was a bossy, self-righteous, annoying little brat.

Hermione buried her head in her arms and cried.

* * *

Once the tears started, she couldn't stop. Hermione sobbed for what seemed like hours in the corridor Malfoy left her in. Her gasps for air echoed around her, but it didn't change the fact that she felt completely alone. It was the first time since she left Ginny's room at the Burrow that she didn't want to be. Even when she heard the clear footsteps of other students, implying that dinner was starting soon, she didn't stop crying. She merely picked herself up and began the long walk to the Gryffindor tower, allowing her big, frizzy hair to cover the tears still streaming down her face like a curtain.

By the time she got to the seventh-year girl's dormitory, she was wailing. She threw herself onto her bed, closing the curtains around her with near temper-tantrum-esque strength. Curling into herself, another wave of tears started again. Her head was beginning to pound, but she still couldn't stop. A war's worth of tears collected under her chin in a small puddle.

She cried for her parents. She cried for Harry, who needed to be ready to die too early. She cried for Ron and Ginny and the rest of the Weasleys because they lost Fred. She cried for Fleur and Bill, who couldn't bring a child to the dilapidated world yet. And she cried for herself, hating every minute she did so. It felt selfish. She cried because she didn't know who she was anymore; she missed that girl she used to be, the girl who fought for house elves and had dreams and punched people when it actually meant something, instead of over petty squabbles between Gryffindors and Slytherins that did nothing but inconvenience her slightly.

Class came and went on Thursday and Friday. She hid herself away. There were quiet whispers behind her curtains, but she didn't bother trying to listen, focusing on stifling her whimpers into one of her pillows whenever the other girls were in the room. Her throat burned for hours after her eyes ran dry.

Ginny never came by. She tried to ignore when the other girl tossed and turned in the bed next to hers, or when she came into the dormitory and pelted her Quidditch gear on the floor. Hermione was sure that whatever second chance Ginny was so keen on giving to others was not available to her. So behind the curtains she stayed, guilt eating at her like a parasite.

It wasn't until Saturday morning that she remembered Harry's letter, and his insistence that she cheer in the Quidditch stands for the first game of the season. She sighed deeply, twisting her head to see the clock face barely visible from her nightstand. The game would be starting in a couple hours now. And she was _not_ going.

A muffled knock came from behind the dormitory door, and it squeaked as whoever was there let themselves in. That was strange; no one ever knocked before coming in.

"Hermione?"

She froze, her hands clutching at her maroon bed sheets. Luna was in here. Why was she in here? Had she come to give her a piece of her mind, a lecture on the fragility of interhouse unity and how people weren't defined by their actions in a continent sprawling war? Hermione already played the conversation in her mind many times, and it always ended with her breaking down and possibly leaving Hogwarts in shame. Although it was always Ginny who yelled at her in her fantasies, she supposed it would be similar if Luna gave it to her first.

"Hermione, I know you're in here," Luna said, her voice entirely too close to her bed. Before Hermione could think of an escape route, the curtains ripped open, and there stood Luna, clad in her Gryffindor lion headpiece and a rich, red turtleneck that read "Go Go Gryffindor" in shimmering gold material that resembled tinsel on a Christmas tree.

She tilted her head at seeing Hermione's state (horridly neon orange pajama pants and an old, purple University College London sweatshirt that she stole from her mother years ago, with the hood pulled over her head and the drawstrings pulled taught, leaving only her nose protruding from behind it) and grinned.

"Those look like my pajamas," she tittered.

Hermione rolled to her right side, turning her back on Luna.

"Wait, Hermione—"

"Please save your lesson on the importance of treating others with kindness in postwar climates. I've already done it to myself a million times, and the message is quite clear," Hermione mumbled behind her hood.

"I wanted to check in on you, actually."

Hermione's heart nearly stopped.

"May I sit?"

She nodded slowly, not thinking that it would be nearly impossible to notice with her head covered. The bed shifted all the same. There were birds, late for migration, singing outside the open window between her and Ginny's bed.

"I brought your work," Luna said suddenly. Hermione could feel her place it behind her head on the bed. "I thought you might be worried about it."

Hermione brought her hands under her chin, curling into herself slightly, but said nothing. The birds were gone now, perhaps realizing their tardiness.

"When my mother died, I had Wrackspurts for years, you know."

Hermione twisted her head around, just barely seeing Luna staring out the window behind her.

"I couldn't get rid of them. I closed myself off because of them, too. I would blame anyone for anything and go to bed confused as to why I did. I wasn't myself." She looked down at her hands, pulling at the hem of her jumper. "It was a hard time for my father," Luna admitted quietly. "He just lost my mother, and I could tell he thought he was losing me too."

Hermione rolled back to her left side and sat up, watching Luna sadly. "Why are you telling me this?"

Luna looked at her then, her face placated and dreamy. "Wrackspurts have a way of making everything complicated," she said. "They hover around people they like for longer than necessary, and they make us do things we never normally would. Like inviting Gryffindors to play frisbee and almost punching Slytherins for daring to do so."

Hermione opened her mouth to object, her hood falling as the strings loosened. "I—"

"I understand, Hermione," Luna said gently. "You're more hurt than anyone I know. I wouldn't want to associate with them either if they called me vile names like that."

The word hung unspoken between them, like a stain that never went away. Mudblood.

"I just…" Hermione floundered, at a loss for words. "I can't…forgive like Ginny and Harry can." She scoffed, rolling her eyes. "Maybe I should write Ron. We always held grudges the best."

"It's not a grudge if they truly hurt you. And they did. But I don't think you'll get an apology."

Hermione recoiled, her eyes narrowing. Luna's eyes widened, and she leaned forward to grab her hands earnestly. "I meant, you won't get a traditional one. They're proud people, and they have Wrackspurts of their own. I'm sure you can relate."

Hermione chuckled once, a small smile drawing across her cheeks. "I can," she whispered.

Luna smiled warmly. "Draco apologized to me, you know."

Hermione's jaw dropped in shock. "Malfoy said sorry to you?"

"No. He'd give us extra food when he was home for breaks. And he told me once that my father was okay." Luna shrugged. "Perhaps Theo's apology was offering the Fanged Flyer to us."

Hermione pressed her lips together, the shard of guilt she had in her stomach somehow sinking deeper. Luna squeezed her hands and got up from the bed.

"I'm going to the game. Do you want to come?"

Hermione shook her head, fighting another wave of tears and plastering a smile on her face. "I don't think I'm quite in the state to go."

Luna nodded, turning to leave.

"Wait!" Hermione reached out a hand to stop her. "Is Ginny…okay?"

Luna sighed. "She's angry. She's taken to hitting bludgers outside in her free time."

Hermione's heart sank.

"But she's worried too." Luna leaned in, her eyes darting back and forth like she was telling a secret. "I think I talked her into being worried," she whispered, grinning. She straightened and headed towards the door.

"Luna?"

"Yes?"

"Are Wrackspurts grief?"

Luna didn't answer. She instead smiled brightly and closed the door to the dormitory with a small click on her way out.

* * *

After she was sure that the Quidditch match started and had enough good shots in to keep most of the student body outside, Hermione got up to go to the Great Hall for a meal. She was starving; it felt like she was beginning to waste away, since she only ate the leftover treats from the trolley on the Hogwarts Express for the past two days. She kept on her mother's purple hoodie and exchanged her obnoxious pajama bottoms for a pair of light denim jeans. Before she left the dormitory, her wand stuffed into a back pocket, she hesitantly approached the mirror on the wall.

All things considered, she looked better than expected. Her hair was a contained rat's nest of a bun at the nape of her neck. Her face was a bit sallow and pale, and her eyes were slightly puffy, but overall, she looked fine. She focused on her eyes, searching for an old spark. Instead, the dark brown seemed to glow, like a barely lit fire casting a weak shadow.

She clenched her jaw. It was a start.

As she exited the Gryffindor common room, though, she wanted – no, needed – to go to the Astronomy Tower instead. She couldn't place it. Hermione took her time walking towards the tower, ignoring her growling stomach to puzzle over her destination. She'd barely be able to see the Quidditch match even from that high up, that much she knew. It wasn't as if she suddenly had the desire to see the place that, in her opinion, started the war either. She remembered the last time she was up there, with Harry and Ron at her side. It was there that they decided to search for the Horcruxes. It was the last place she clearly remembered being at Hogwarts before her return.

She wasn't even sure if the tower was open, but her feet carried her up the steps anyway. It wasn't until she heard gasps of breath some flights above that she was ripped from her thoughts.

Hermione instantly crouched and slowed her steps, sneaking up the stairs with her wand in front of her defensively. As she got closer, she could hear a light whistling coming from the person's ragged breaths. When she was sure that they were around the corner, she whipped out from behind the staircase's spiraling wall. But instead of stupefying the person like she intended, she only froze, her heart leaping to her mouth.

"Malfoy?"

He looked awful. He was leaning against the other wall, clutching the left side of his chest in pain. His lip was split and dribbling blood down his chin, and there was a dark bruise on a malformed cheekbone; clearly broken. His hair looked starkly white compared to the blood that seeped from his head on one side, and he panted too much to be normal, his body stuttering with every breath.

His head snapped up, panic filling his features. He didn't even have the decency to wall himself up in a stony façade of hatred upon realizing that it was her.

" _Fuck_ ," he wheezed, squinting his eyes shut and collapsing forward.

Hermione leapt up the steps only to barely catch him, causing them both to tumble down the staircase until she braced her foot against the wall, pinning her between him and the cold stone at her back. She shifted until his head was settled in her lap, the rest of him sprawled on the steps above them in some act against gravity. He cursed loudly, his shout echoing up the tower in waves.

"Malfoy," she spluttered out. She touched his head gently, only for him to hiss and wince away. She recoiled, breathing in sharply at the sight of her hands covered in bright red blood. She felt her breaths becoming erratic, her body taking over in an utter panic. She didn't know healing spells. At all. _Episkey_ was for minor injuries. Her Essence of Dittany was in her room, stuffed in her purple beaded bag, and it wouldn't help her now. She could feel the shards of a shattered rib against her leg as he panted.

"Malfoy," she whispered hurriedly, placing her hands on the sides of his face and willing him to look at her. "I can't…I need to get Madame Pomfrey."

He shook his head violently, pressing his lips together so tightly that they turned white from the pressure. "Call…Daphne," he gasped.

"She can't help this! Malfoy, you need to go to the hospital wing!"

He opened his eyes, and for once, she could see his emotions painted like a finished canvas. He was scared.

He reached to grab her wrist tightly. "Please."

Hermione nodded, trying to mask her own fear from him unsuccessfully. She leaned away from him to grab her wand, it having clattered a few steps below them in the fall. With her fingers gripped around the wood, she focused on laughing with Harry and Ron in the Gryffindor common room, on running down the stairs of her home to see her parent's shining faces in front of the Christmas tree, its lights twinkling in the glow of their fireplace. Bluish-white wisps of smoke were already evaporating from the tip of her wand.

" _Expecto patronum_ ," she whispered. Her otter was only visible for seconds before it dashed off, bounding down the steps in search for Daphne Greengrass.

Hermione turned back to Malfoy, bringing her wand to his split lip and muttering the _episkey_ spell. He cursed again, quietly this time, but his lip stitched itself back together in seconds, leaving only the trail of blood behind. His hand was still gripping at her other wrist, refusing to let go.

She watched his chest as it faintly rose and fell. His breaths were coming quicker and quicker. She knew what this was: Malfoy was going to die here. She'd been around it enough to know when its shadows crept closer, closing in on others at a tauntingly slow pace. The sun was no longer shining from the window above them, a cloud coming to cover its glow. Hermione squeezed her eyes shut, willing Daphne to come. Malfoy was going to die here, and all she could do was watch.

When she opened her eyes, relief shot through her that he was still breathing, and that her patronus was bounding up the steps again, watching her expectantly before being sucked back into her wand. Daphne rounded the corner of the spiral staircase just after it disappeared, her face red from running across the castle.

She only glanced at Hermione for a second before rushing to Malfoy's side, her usually perfect caramel hair falling every which way. She stood poised above him, her wand ready.

"Where?"

"His ribs," Hermione croaked out. "He can't breathe."

Daphne immediately ripped open his white button up shirt, revealing a dark stain of bruises on his left side and a mess of protrusions from under his skin. Her eyes were wild as she assessed the damage, sighing deeply at his injuries.

"I don't know if I can fix this," Daphne admitted quietly.

"You have to," Hermione said earnestly. "He's going to die." She could feel Malfoy's grip fading on her wrist.

"He's going to die if I don't do it right!" Daphne snapped.

"He's going to die if you don't do anything!"

She could see Daphne fighting back tears. She pointed her wand at the middle of the injury, her hands shaking violently. She cast one look at Malfoy's face and inhaled sharply through her teeth.

"I'm sorry, Draco," she whispered. " _Brackium emendo_!"

A loud crack reverberated through the entire staircase, and Malfoy screamed. He tried to curl into his side and hide the injury from them, but Hermione braced his shoulders and held him down. Daphne put her hand on his ribs, and a shuddering sigh of relief went through her.

"One more, Draco, I'm _sorry_ ," she assured, placing her wand slightly higher on his chest and performing the spell again. Malfoy went completely limp, passing out, but not before he took in a deep, gulping breath.

Daphne slumped against the opposite wall, a single tear sliding down her cheek. Malfoy took in another breath, his face finally relaxing in sleep.

"He…his head," Hermione whispered hoarsely. She turned his head to the side, revealing the bloody gash at the back.

Daphne leaned forward, procuring a vial from the pocket of her white pants, and began pouring the liquid along the entirety of the gash. Hermione watched as the skin sewed together. By the time Daphne finished the bottle, it looked months old, the only remaining clue that it was recent being the blood that remained in his hair.

"Essence of Dittany?" Hermione asked, her mind not thinking quickly or clearly enough to stop her mouth.

Daphne nodded, turning her attention to Malfoy's cheek. "Not surprised that you're familiar," she said, her sweet voice a bit rougher than usual.

"I had to use it on Ron once."

Daphne glanced up at her, an eyebrow raised, clearly interested on the backstory to _that_. Hermione only smiled weakly.

Daphne sighed, focusing again on the rest of Malfoy's injuries. "You caught me at the right time," she finally said. "I have about a thousand vials of it in my room. I thought to grab one just in case."

Hermione's eyebrows knitted at her choice of words – just in case? – but said nothing about it, choosing to file it away for later.

"No Quidditch for you, then?" Hermione asked, changing to a more pleasant subject. Daphne was wearing a grey crew neck with the Slytherin insignia, despite her thankful absence from the game.

"No Quidditch for me."

Daphne worked in silence for the rest of the time, her wand tracing away his bruises and scourgifying any remaining blood. She worked hard at his side, coming close to magically draining herself, but could only get the bruise to heal to a light mix of blues and purples. She collapsed back against the wall, her forehead shiny with sweat.

"He's _not_ going to be happy about that one," she muttered.

Hermione giggled despite herself, bringing her hand to cover her mouth in apology. "I can help you drag him back to the Slytherin common room," she offered.

"I am not _dragging_ anyone," Daphne said snobbishly. She looked at Hermione tiredly before tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear. "You can go," she said. "I'll wait with him here until he wakes up."

"You're sure?"

"Of course."

Hermione carefully transferred Malfoy's head to Daphne's lap, and stood to leave. She was careful not to drag her bloody fingers on the wall, instead using her shoulder as a prop against it. Even if she hadn't done anything, the near-death experience left her weak in the knees.

"Hermione?"

She turned, finding Daphne's unexpectedly open gaze on her. The girl gave her a small, close-lipped smile, relief reading clearly on her face.

"Thank you."

* * *

By the time Hermione got back to the dormitory, it had been nearly two hours since she left. The clock on her nightstand read 4:07. She assumed that the Quidditch match was ending soon, if it hadn't already, which meant she had approximately an hour and a half before her classmates came flooding back to the Gryffindor Tower. If their team won (with Ginny being Seeker and captain, it would be an upset if they didn't) the whole house would have an early dinner, intending to start libations early as well.

Hermione thought it would be a perfect amount of time to think. She got in the shower and thought while watching blood wash away from her hands. She thought as she put on new pajamas, ones much more acceptable for others to see. She sat on her bed and stared at the wall while she thought, waiting for the ruckus that would clatter through the entire tower once everyone rushed in.

Hermione thought because there was a puzzle in front of her, and she intended to solve it.

She noticed that there were pieces around her when Daphne brought the Essence of Dittany "just in case." After sitting on her bed for ten minutes, she decided that all the pieces had to do with Malfoy. Why did he have a black eye the day before classes started? Why did he admit to owning the Fanged Flyer, even though it was against his probation to receive disciplinary action? Why did he avoid going to Madame Pomfrey when he was injured? And why on _earth_ did he nearly die a few hours ago?

It didn't make sense. Even if there was nothing going on, that nothing absolutely baffled her. She was missing a puzzle piece. Hermione didn't leave puzzles unfinished. Ever.

There was whooping and yelling in the common room below by the time she finished thinking. She looked at the clock. 6:02. She sighed, pulling back her blankets and settling underneath them. Her head was pounding, and she was utterly exhausted. Intending to sleep for a very long time, Hermione laid on her side, her back to the dormitory door.

The door opened a creak a bit later, letting light spill into the room. Hermione tensed, not at all close to falling asleep but pretending to be, and waited for the person to leave. Instead, they padded softly to the edge of her bed, their shadow looming over her ominously.

"Hermione?" they whispered.

She immediately sat up, turning to see Ginny. She was still in her Quidditch uniform, and she was holding a plate full of food and a glass of what looked to be pumpkin juice.

"Ginny?" she whispered back, her stomach freezing up and turning to stone.

The girl's face was unreadable in the darkness. Hermione waited for her to start yelling, spitting and frothing at the mouth with the lines she'd already assigned to her in her many fantasies of how this would go down. Instead, Ginny held the plate and glass forward to her.

"I brought Shepherd's pie," Ginny said.

The two girls sat on Hermione's bed, feasting on the leftover dinner that Ginny brought. She told Hermione about every move from the match, and for once, Hermione cared enough to listen about the stupid sport. She especially enjoyed how Ginny caught the Snitch (upside down and accelerating towards the bleachers) and told her it was better than any of Harry's catches. After recounting the game, they sat in silence, Hermione still munching on the remaining food.

"I'm still mad at you," Ginny finally said.

Hermione's fork stopped midair. She could see smudges of dirt on the illuminated half of Ginny's face, most likely not to be cleaned off until the next day.

"I know," she admitted, her voice lowering. "I'm sorry, Ginny."

"It's okay. I…partly understand." She held Hermione's gaze before shrugging, grinning playfully. "Luna convinced me to."

"I know," Hermione laughed. "She told me."

"She came by?"

"She brought my work." Hermione nodded toward the stack of paper on her nightstand. They settled into silence again, until Ginny huffed loudly.

"I just worry about you, okay?"

"I know."

"You can talk to me about anything."

"I know."

Hermione hesitated before leaning forward. "I, erm…" She tapped her fingers on the plate now resting on her blankets nervously. "I cried."

Ginny gasped, her hands smacking against her mouth to cover a gigantic smile. "You did not!"

Hermione couldn't help but return her elation. "I did."

"Oh, Hermione!" Ginny reached and pulled her into a hug. Hermione nestled into the crook of her neck, squinting her eyes shut to prevent some of the happiest of tears from escaping. Ginny held her tightly until a loud roar came from the bottom of the tower.

"I better go down there," Ginny mumbled, her voice muffled by Hermione's shoulder. "They might riot if I don't show up."

Hermione nodded against Ginny's neck before pulling away. "Go have fun, Queen of Quidditch," she insisted, lightly pushing her toward the door. "You deserve it."

After the door clicked shut, Hermione fell onto her pillow, unable to wipe her smile away. For the first time in what felt like years, she fell asleep happy.

* * *

Daphne started smiling at her in the hallways between classes. If Pansy was walking with her, she'd smile too, although it came off pretentious and snobbish. Even Theo was acting differently. When she accidentally ran into him in the Great Hall, her nose stuck in the latest History of Magic reading, he didn't even look angry. He simply grabbed her shoulders, righting her before she was knocked back.

"Sorry, Granger," he said stiffly. Before she could even open her mouth to thank him, he was gone, turning to the left and sitting at the Slytherin table. No sarcastic comment at all. It was unnerving.

"Did you apologize to Theo or something?" Ginny asked, sipping her pumpkin juice one afternoon.

Hermione frowned. She hadn't, but she remembered what Luna said to her when she came to drop off her missed work: how Malfoy apologized when she was held captive in the Manor, without saying the words "I'm sorry."

"Yeah," Hermione said softly, staring into nothing. "I guess I did."

Malfoy was the only one still treating her the same way. Her eyes were glued to him when he shuffled into the Great Hall Monday morning, his face unsuccessfully hiding a grimace. He looked much better; his cheekbone was normal again, and his lip held no traces of a cut. But she saw him hold his side more than once during breakfast, and when he turned his head just right, a scar was just barely visible underneath his hair.

He caught her staring once, glaring hard enough to wither her insides. For the rest of the week, he treated her similarly, and by Thursday, she felt things nearly righting in the world. Which was why when the chair next to her scraped out, a body sitting at the desk, she assumed it to be Ginny.

"I think I'll finish my letter to Harry today," she said, righting her textbook to be perfectly centered in front of her. She looked to her left when Ginny didn't answer, a bolt of shock zapping through her at seeing Malfoy instead.

"What are you doing?" she demanded, tightening her grip on her quill.

He swiveled to stare at her, pausing from opening his own textbook to the page indicated on the board at the front of the classroom. He raised his eyebrows innocently, his eyes darting from her to his textbook, then back to her.

"I'm sitting," he said simply.

"What are you doing _here_?"

"I take Charms the same as you Granger, I might as well aim to learn something."

Ginny rocketed into the classroom just as Professor Flitwick started class, her mouth turning in confusion at Malfoy sitting next to her. Hermione sent her an apologetic look as she went to sit a bit further up next to Neville.

"Please finish the textbook activity you'll find on page 172," Professor Flitwick instructed, his nasally voice barely finding the back of the room. "It should strengthen your knowledge on the Reductor Curse before we discuss it as a class."

Hermione huffed. She already did the textbook activity. It was included in the reading! As much as she liked Professor Flitwick, he had a terrible habit of wasting class time. As everyone else started working, she pulled her Ancient Runes homework from in between the rest of her books, choosing to focus her energy on that instead. It didn't help that she _knew_ the Reductor Curse and performed it successfully several times before. She could answer Professor Flitwick's questions in her sleep.

Malfoy wasn't working on the Charms activity either. In fact, he wasn't working on anything. He crossed his ankle over his knee, leaning back in his chair and staring at the ceiling. Hermione shot a glare at him, annoyed.

"You still haven't told me what you're doing here," she whispered harshly.

Malfoy lazily reached for his wand on the desk, flicking it once. "If you're going to talk, you can at least have the decency to cast a _muffilato_ ," he said, his voice at normal volume. The rest of the class remained undisturbed. Hermione twisted in her seat to see him better. She could almost feel smoke spewing from her ears as her face heated.

"Why are you sitting next to me?" she fumed.

He leaned forward, placing his elbows on the desk and resting his head on his hand. "Daphne," he finally drawled, "is under the ridiculous notion that I should thank you." He frowned at her Ancient Runes paper. "Ehwaz means partnership, not defense," he supplied casually, his finger pointing at the vocabulary word.

She stared at her paper incredulously, realizing that she made the exact same mistake that she did on her Ancient Runes O.W.L. nearly two years ago. She took her quill and scratched out her translation with a little too much force.

"Why aren't you working on the Charms activity?" he asked, his voice thick with a taunting edge.

"Because I've already done it," she snapped. "Why aren't _you_ doing it?"

"I'm having much more fun antagonizing you."

" _Merlin_ ," she groaned. "I swear I should have left you on those damn stair—"

She froze, her eyes widening at the reality of what she just said. Malfoy raised an eyebrow, half of his mouth turning downward in condescension.

"I'm going to forget you said that, Granger," he chided. "Let's call it progress toward getting Daphne off my back. And although its beside the point," he continued, turning his attention toward the front of the room. "I've done the Reductor Curse about a million times already. I could answer Flitwick's questions in my sleep."

Hermione gently placed her quill on the desk, more than a little alarmed at the nearly exact wording that she thought mere minutes before. The rest of the class was still working on the activity, although she noticed Ginny twisting to stare at her and Malfoy more than once. The seventh years knew the drill: work for long enough on whatever activity Professor Flitwick assigned, and maybe there wouldn't be much time to do anything else. She sighed, staring at her Ancient Runes worksheet.

"Why were you even there?" Hermione asked him quietly.

He shrugged. "Why were you going there?"

"I don't really know."

"Then I don't know either." At seeing her frustrated look, he leaned back in his seat. "Why does anyone go anywhere, Granger? Perhaps I enjoy reliving some of the worst moments of my life."

He was talking about the day Dumbledore died. Harry had recounted everything to her. The only thing she clearly remembered was Harry's insistence that Malfoy was lowering his wand as the rest of the Death Eaters filed in.

"And how did you end up…" Hermione gestured toward him, at a loss for words.

His pale eyes narrowed. "You really did lose braincells, didn't you?"

Hermione opened her mouth to retort, but he held up a hand and leaned closer to her. "I'm not exactly the most popular person in the world," he said, as if exchanging a secret.

She blinked, digesting his words. This conversation was puzzling her more by the second. He wasn't saying what she thought he was saying, was he?

"What are you implying?" she asked slowly.

Malfoy shook his head, his mouth frowning petulantly. "I'm not implying anything."

She was sure her quill would break in her hand. "That's…that's barbaric!" she spluttered. "Who in their right mind would just…attack someone for no reason?!"

At that, Malfoy laughed. It was a mean laugh, reminding her of when he would torment Harry in third year by pretending to be a Dementor with his cronies. Even when he finished laughing, his smile remained. Hermione's traitorous mind brought up the interesting point that he might have even been attractive if it wasn't so cruelly etched on his face.

"Why are you laughing?" she asked, recoiling.

"Granger," he started. His eyes glinted dangerously. " _You_ were going to punch Theo over a toy the other day. Imagine what you would've done to me."

"I wouldn't…" Hermione trailed off, her stomach sinking.

He waved her off. "The fact of the matter is, it's easy to take out leftover anger on the closest enemy around." He gestured around him, pursing his lips. "Here, that's me."

She couldn't argue with him; she knew enough about leftover anger to last a lifetime. She glanced at his left forearm. Even though she'd never seen the mark, she always had her suspicions. He never rolled up his sleeves in public anymore, for one. Malfoy followed her gaze and cross his arms against his chest defensively.

"Why are you telling me this?" Hermione blurted. "The last time I asked you anything, you said something to the effect of 'I don't have to explain myself to you.'"

"That was before Daphne was on my case about shit like gratitude." His head whipped back to her, and he glanced at her Ancient Runes work. "Speaking of which, I've figured out a way to do this so I don't have to lay my heart out like a bloody Hufflepuff."

"I'm surprised you even know the word, much less how to express it," she muttered, rolling her eyes.

"Here's a proposition for you," he said, scraping his seat across the floor and invading her personal space (although that bubble doubled in size when he was around). "I will help you with Ancient Runes. You'll accept and pass with flying colors, and Daphne can go on knowing that I've repaid a debt."

"Thanks for telling me what to do, Malfoy, but I don't _need_ your help. You'll have to satisfy Daphne some other way."

"I can count five of these translations that you've gotten wrong on this paper right now, Granger," he pestered, pointing at her homework.

Hermione frowned. "I've only filled in five."

"Exactly."

"But…" she whimpered, darting her eyes across the paper. "I used _Spellman's Syllabary_ to translate."

"Well, I don't know how you're using it," he retorted, his hands coming up in mock defense and his forehead crinkling. "But it's wrong. And I get everything right in that class. Even if _you_ don't specifically need me, your ego does."

Hermione scowled at him. She couldn't possibly know how he knew which of her buttons to push. She wanted to refuse him, to tell him to suck it and find some other way to satiate Daphne. But as she stared at her homework, she heard a small, niggling voice in the back of her head telling her to take the deal. Ancient Runes was her hardest subject, and it was the only one she couldn't get ahead in during her time searching for Horcruxes. She'd be damned if she got another E.

She could feel his earnest gaze boring into her. She sniffed and faced him, trying to ignore the subtle flash of triumph in his eyes. He knew he had her.

"How much of this is just to get Daphne off your back?" she asked.

Malfoy jutted his chin, considering her. His face was impassive as he thought. Finally he sighed, clearing his throat and looking at the floor, avoiding her gaze.

"I don't take my debts lightly," he admitted. "I doubt there's going to be a threat on your life any time soon, so this is the best I can do."

Hermione took a deep breath and nodded once. "Okay then. You'll teach me."

Malfoy dipped his head in acknowledgment, and flicked his wand once more, dispelling the _muffilato_ just as Professor Flitwick addressed the class once more. They listened to the lecture in silence for the rest of class, her arm only bumping into his once as she took diligent notes on a spell she already knew.

* * *

That was how Malfoy became Hermione's study partner. They met in the library after dinner on the nights before Ancient Runes. She hated every minute of it. Malfoy was a good teacher, and although he had his moments, he didn't rub it into her face often that he was for once better at a subject than her. She mostly hated it because of his natural inclination toward the study. He was very, very good at translating runes.

"It's because you don't know another language," he said once. She'd been complaining about her natural proclivity to fail at understanding the readings Professor Babbling would assign.

"How does that have to do with pictures on a page?"

"It's not a puzzle. If you approach it like Arithmancy, you'll never get it. It's like if you had to relearn English. You have to memorize and remember."

It was easy for Hermione to abandon her previous methods of approaching Ancient Runes only because she had a different puzzle to solve: Malfoy. They didn't talk often other than to compare their work, but she still tried to find her missing pieces through observing him. Unfortunately for her, she'd never been good at reading anything other than books. Malfoy wasn't just closed off: he was a complete slab of stone locked away in the farthest corner of the world, the key buried underneath thousands of pounds of pressure at the bottom of the ocean.

Perhaps she'd have to ask him for tutoring sessions on reading people, too.

After a while, they started comparing their other work as well, especially for Arithmancy. If he was her tutor for runes, then she was his for that class. She convinced herself that this progression was only natural; he'd do his other work while she struggled at the other end of the table, so why not ask for her opinion on his answers? It didn't mean they were friends.

It wasn't until he was late to their study session one day that she worked up the courage to ask him anything beyond classwork. He shuffled in carrying a haphazard mess of textbooks and papers in his arms, not even bothering to explain himself.

"You're late," she accused, but the rest of her lecture faded from her tongue when she saw a darkening bruise on his jaw. He looked more misaligned with the world than usual, refusing to look at her as he organized his things at his end of the desk. He clearly didn't want to talk about it.

Hermione was never very good at abating her curiosity either, though.

"Why don't you go to Madame Pomfrey?" she asked casually, never taking her eyes off her worksheet despite not having made a single dent in it. Malfoy scratched into his parchment with more force than necessary. She was sure that he wasn't going to answer after a moment.

"Pumpkin juice doesn't solve all the world's problems, despite her claims," he finally said stiffly.

Minutes passed. Hermione decided that this conversation would proceed with staggering progress if it were to happen at all.

"She'd fix it better than Daphne."

"The way I see it, I'm only providing Daphne with proper experience she'll need later in life," he muttered. He was referring to the Slytherin girl's aspirations for becoming a Healer. Hermione clicked her tongue, waiting for him to diffuse. If there was anything she learned about him, Malfoy didn't explode when he was angry. He got quieter. Muttering was only a step closer to him storming out and leaving her with a poor homework grade and no answers to his behavior.

If she was honest with herself, she didn't know why she wanted answers to his behavior. It wasn't as if their relationship had suddenly dethawed. He was still rude to her during the day, and she was to him. She chocked it up to her inability to _not_ know things.

"Do you know who did it?"

"Yes."

"Why don't you go to Professor McGonagall, then?"

He huffed, his quill dropping with a clack. She kept her eyes on her paper.

"I'm not allowed to 'cause trouble.'"

Ah. She wondered if it was a direct quote from his probationary statement, or if he was merely simplifying it in his frustrated state. She also wondered if that was the _true_ reason he avoided Madame Pomfrey: to avoid "causing trouble." She took a deep breath, summoning her wits.

"I seriously doubt that they would blame you in this situation—"

"Like they'd believe a former Death Eater," he snapped.

Hermione looked up, facing his glare calmly. His left sleeve was barely folded over, revealing the black swirl of the snake's neck that she knew twisted through the rest of the mark. She knew she was on dangerous waters, but she couldn't stop herself.

"Why did you do it?" she asked, her voice suddenly harsh.

He stood up, his chair squeaking in protest against the floor. "If your only goal out of this was to delve into my deepest, darkest secrets, you've picked the _wrong_ day to do it."

"Malfoy—"

"I agreed to teach you runes, not delve into the decisions of my past, you self-righteous brat!"

Hermione stood, the air cracking around her. "You don't think I hear the _other_ word whenever you say that, Malfoy?" she hissed. "After everything, and you still have the itch to call me that vile slur! You can't even look me in the eye and tell me I'm wrong, can you?"

"That _word_ is far from your most negative trait."

"I knew you hadn't changed the moment I saw you," she continued, pacing around the table to jab him in the chest. "Still the pompous, most unbelievable prat I've ever met in my life! I asked you _one_ question, and you couldn't even answer it without pulling out the insults and tirades!"

"I've answered every single one of your damn questions!" he argued, his voice rising. "Merlin forbid I refuse to answer something I _don't_ want to talk about with _you_. Why can't you just accept that the war happened and it's done with?!"

"Because it's still _happening_ for me!" Hermione blew up. "I've been put down my entire _life_ over this war, and people like you still don't believe I don't belong here!"

"You don't think it's happening for other people too?! Your precious Weasleys lost a son, Saint fucking Potter was an orphaned _baby_ for his entire fucking life! You're not some special snowflake just because your parents are Muggles!"

"You think you've got some single debt to me just because I saved your pathetic little life?" Hermione accused darkly, her voice lowering. She felt a dangerous rush of blood running to her head, its roar nearly deafening. "You have an entire _lifetime_ of debts to me, for putting me down and making me feel inferior and enlarging my damn teeth over my chin. I'm cashing in _now_ , Malfoy. Why did you take the stupid mark?!"

"They were going to kill my mother!" he shouted, throwing his hands in the air in defeat. Hermione stilled, recoiling from him, but he didn't stop. "They were going to kill her and make sure I _watched_!"

His hands came down to cover his face as he inhaled sharply through his teeth. Time slowed between them. It seemed like hours passed before she could breathe again. Hermione stood rooted to her spot, shock making her feet stick to the floor.

"I would do _anything_ for her," he said quietly from behind his hands. His voice was suddenly hoarse. "Even take a fucking Dark Mark."

Hermione tentatively reached out a hand to him. She wanted to tell him that she understood, that if she was him, she would have done the same. That she obliviated her parents to protect them, only to never see them again. The guilt was heavy when nothing could be done to reverse it. But her mouth couldn't move, no sound came out.

Malfoy dropped his hands suddenly, moving back to the desk and packing up his things. He refused to look at her. "Take the Troll," he shot out, pushing past her with a hard bump to the shoulder. "I'm done."

Hermione only watched as he stalked out of the library, the door slamming behind him. Her arms curled protectively around her sides as tears threatened to fall down her face. Not for herself, but for Malfoy, who made the same choice she did.

* * *

She never got to apologize. Hermione spent sleepless nights in the library, pouring over her work feverishly to take her mind off their argument. Ginny and Luna would come with her sometimes, but they always left before curfew began. Her birthday came and went. She wasn't terribly surprised when everyone got her books, but she was grateful all the same. Ginny sat next to her in the common room after the cake and everyone else was gone.

"Did you write back Harry?"

"Yes. He hasn't answered yet."

"Hmm. Probably busy with his first assignment. He hasn't written me either."

"Well, your letters probably take much more time to finish," Hermione teased.

"Oh, stop it." Ginny slapped her arm, her face tinting red. "It's not like he's the most eloquent person in the room."

"I suppose. But he tries."

Ginny hummed her agreement. They watched the fire simmer in front of them, the wood cracking and breaking down as the night wore thin.

"You okay, Hermione?" Ginny asked tentatively.

Hermione nodded. "Why?"

"You seemed a bit off recently."

"Ancient Runes is killing me. I'm just tired."

It wasn't a lie. Hermione was nineteen years old, and she was tired. She felt weary in her bones, like she lived a million lifetimes in the span of a year. Even the library couldn't light a spark, but she holed herself there anyway.

It was the first week of October when her studying was interrupted. She was taking a break just before curfew started, staring out the window into the night. It was finally colder. From her vantage point, she could see the oak tree from a month before, now blossoming with bright oranges and yellows even in the darkness. Somehow, she had missed the season change again.

If she hadn't chosen to schedule her break then, she wouldn't have seen the white wisps of a Patronus Charm sprinting out of the Forbidden Forest toward the castle. She leaned closer to the window, squinting her eyes to see better. As the patronus approached, she recognized it as a terrier. It leaped up the wall, nearly flying until it passed through the window into the library, making her jump back in surprise. Now that it was in front of her, she recognized it.

It was Ron's.

_Hermione!_ he shouted, the patronus glowing at every syllable. She could hear a frenzy of spells in the background of his voice. _Get everyone out of Hogwarts! There's Death Eaters – Merlin, they hit Harry, and skyrocketed out of here. The Order's on its way. Portkey to Grimmauld Place and we'll meet you ther—"_

His voice cut off, and the Jack Russell Terrier dissipated into a cloud of smoke. Before Hermione could even move, the castle began to rumble and shake, causing books to fly off their shelves. When Hermione looked outside the window again, a gigantic fireball was skyrocketing toward it.

Hermione screamed, ducking under the table as the glass shattered above her. She crawled to the other end, her hair getting singed by the fire roaring through the shelves nearest to her. As she got up, another impact collided into the stone wall, throwing her against the stacks. She scrambled away from the opening that smoldered in the wall, clutching her wand tightly and sprinting to the exit.

As she turned to rush to the Gryffindor Tower, three shrouded figures entered the other end of the hallway. She barely pulled up a shield as bright green streaks of light flew at her. Slicing the shield away, she stupefied two and crouched behind a crumbled piece of stone. The final figure's footsteps raced toward her, and she quickly realized she had no escape. As she poked her head from around her hiding place, she saw him drawing up his wand in a movement she knew all too well.

" _Reduct—_!"

" _Stupefy_!"

The figure collapsed to the ground, revealing Draco Malfoy, his wand pointed as true as an arrow.

"Malfoy!" she shrieked, racing toward him.

"You need to leave," he panted. "Apparate, Portkey, _whatever_ , get out of here."

Hermione looked down at his wand arm, his left arm, and saw his sleeve completely rolled up. The Dark Mark stared angrily at her, the snake twisting and writhing as if completely real.

"What is happening?" she gasped, backing away from him slightly.

"They're back," he said hoarsely, ignoring her concern. "Slytherin's already gone. You need to leave, now."

"I have to find Ginny and Luna!"

"There's no time!" His attention focused just above her head, his right arm shooting out to pull her behind him as he shot a wordless spell toward another hooded man. "If you go and find them, none of you will make it."

"I can't leave them behind!"

He exhaled loudly. " _Fucking_ Gryffindors," he muttered, before turning to face her again. "Where are they?"

They raced to the Gryffindor Tower, Malfoy taking the lead and shooting down any attackers while she sustained a _Protego_ behind them. She didn't recognize some of the spells Malfoy cast; some of them made the figure's skin waste like acid was eating it away, while others dismembered their assailants in one stroke. The castle burned around them, heat nearly stifling her lungs and burning her skin. When they passed the Great Hall, it was completely up in flames, the stone walls collapsed to reveal more attackers climbing out of the darkness.

The Fat Lady was gone when they reached the common room. Hermione flung open the door and rushed in, running directly into Ginny. Tears and blood from a temple wound were streaming down the girl's face.

"Hermione!" she shouted, hugging her forcefully. "I didn't know where you were, I came here as soon as I could but you weren't here and I was afraid I'd never _find_ you—"

"We need a Portkey, Ginny," Hermione said, retracting herself from her grip.

"Already have one," she answered, pointing at a hairclip resting on the table nearest to them. "Hermione," she continued, worry prominent on her features. "Harry sent a Patronus saying to make one. He sounded so _weak_ , I don't think he's okay—"

"Where would Lovegood be?" Malfoy interrupted harshly, entering through the Fat Lady's tunnel. Ginny jumped at his voice, immediately retreating away from his visible mark and pointing her wand at him.

"What is going on, Malfoy?" she demanded, her voice wavering.

Malfoy held up his hands, his eyes wide and earnest. "I don't know. The Dark Mark, it activated, and this started happening." He took a deep breath. "I think there's a resurgence."

"He helped me get to you," Hermione said, pressing on Ginny's arm and lowering it. "Did you call Luna?"

"Yes, I told her to come here. I don't know if she got it—"

"I'm here."

Luna's voice was weak and faint as she leaned heavily against the entrance to the common room. She was clutching her side, a dark stain growing on her shirt. Ginny rushed forward, supporting her and bringing her near the Portkey.

"Okay, she's here, now _go_ ," Malfoy said, his voice near pleading. The room violently shook, nearly throwing Hermione off her feet. The ceiling plaster broke off, dust filling the room. Ginny gripped her shoulder tightly, nearly dropping Luna as the room suddenly felt lopsided. Hermione realized with horror that they were destroying the tower, with them in it.

"Malfoy, come with us," Hermione begged.

He shook his head, stepping closer to her. "I can't."

"Yes, you can."

"Listen to me, I _can't_ , they'll—"

"Please, just come!" Hermione reached her hand to him desperately. "The tower's going to fall with you in it if you don't!"

"Granger," he said softly, his voice somehow calm, collected. He took another step toward her, nearly falling as the tower lost more foundation. "They have my mother. If I leave, they'll kill her."

"We'll get her!" she shouted at him. "We'll get her another time, just _please_ come with us!"

Malfoy sighed, dropping his hands to his sides in what she thought was defeat. She stretched her hand further, imploring him to take it.

"You were right," he whispered. "I have a lifetime of debts to you. Let me repay one." He flicked his wand, sending the hairclip flying toward her hand. Before Hermione could process what was happening, she caught it.

"No!" she screeched, the unsavory pull of the Portkey making her stomach turn. The last thing she saw was Malfoy's blond hair being pulled into a whirlwind of colors, whisking her away from Hogwarts as the tower crumbled to the ground.


	3. Chapter 3

* * *

3

_"_ _Courage will now be your best defence against the storm that is at hand-—that and such hope as I bring."_

_J.R.R. Tolkien_

* * *

Hermione stared out the window, her leg bouncing anxiously against the floor. It was more customary than anything; the window was cloudy with dust after years of never being cleaned, and there were spider webs littering every corner. It's not like she would be able to see anything coming. She spent most of the past three days at this window, waiting. There were a couple specific things she waited for; any of them would've eased her mind, but none of them came. She crossed her arms across her chest anyway, refusing to even pace in case _something_ happened.

She heard Ginny coming up the stairs, but her steps were as labored as they had been since they arrived at Grimmauld Place. Hermione knew that if something happened, if somebody came, she would be scrambling up the stairs to let her know.

Like most of her behavior recently, though, Hermione asked what was customary anyway.

"Any news?"

Ginny approached her field of vision, fidgeting with her fingers. "Nothing."

Hermione cursed under her breath. "How's Luna?"

"She's sleeping." Ginny sighed, one of her hands coming to rub the exhaustion out of her eyes. They were both tired. That's all they could be at the moment. "I put a new bandage on her."

"She already bled through the other one?" Hermione asked, never breaking her staring contest with the foggy window.

"I think…I don't know. She won't stop bleeding. It's like they cursed her."

Hermione bit her lip. The cut on Luna's side was large, but it wasn't deep. She'd heard of cursed blades before. She thought they were in the clear when they lifted her shirt days ago and the skin wasn't necrotic, rotting Luna from the outside in. But it never began to heal, as if in a constant state of cutting itself open and bleeding Luna dry. Hermione had her suspicions about the wound the day previous, but she figured she was being paranoid. It only spiked her nerves that Ginny came to the same conclusions she did.

She'd never felt more helpless in her life. Hermione's ineptitude at healing extended to Muggle medical practices, and even if it hadn't, there was nothing in Grimmauld Place that was useful. The house was barren and decrepit. Even Kreacher was gone, off to the kitchens at Hogwarts, although who knew what remained there now. She doubted there was even a kitchen left for Kreacher to mutter about his beloved mistress in. Maybe there wasn't even a Kreacher left.

"Hermione," Ginny said, her voice indecisive. "We have to do something."

"Like what?"

"I don't know, anything."

"Ron said they'd meet us here."

"Not that, Luna. I…" Ginny hesitated, staring at the floor. "I don't know if she'll make it."

"What would you have me do, stich her up with yarn?" Hermione snapped, ripping her gaze from the window.

Ginny flinched, her eyes turning cold. "We could go to Diagon Alley. Maybe there's a store—"

"If we go, they'd only be able to track us back here."

"You don't know that."

"We can't risk this house." Hermione sighed, pushing hard into one of her temples. "I don't know of any other safe houses that are still safe."

"She said she heard her mum."

Hermione's stomach dropped.

"I can't just sit here while she…" Ginny trailed off, floundering for words, and threw her hands in the air exasperatedly. She dropped herself on the bed, holding herself tightly. "Why did this have to happen?"

Hermione tasted blood on her lip, now raw from her gnawing. "We don't know what's happening."

Ginny didn't answer. It was the truth, albeit barely. They hadn't gotten another patronus from an Order member. _The Prophet_ hadn't released a paper in days. Updates were nonexistent. But on a grander scale, they both knew what was happening. When Hermione stared at the window too long, she would see the Dark Mark twisting and turning on Draco Malfoy's skin within the cloudy glass. When she couldn't sleep (which was often) she'd hear Ron screaming at her to get out of Hogwarts. When she could sleep, she dreamed of Order members in unknown locations getting shot down by green balls of light, lying motionless until the ground eventually covered them in an unmarked grave.

Resurgence, as Malfoy put it. She couldn't have said it better.

Hermione didn't like to think about him. She felt bitter and betrayed. Unknowingly, she allowed herself to understand him. She saw herself in his actions; she placed herself in his shoes, and found that she would have done the same. She knew what it was like to make an unfathomable decision because it seemed better than the alternative, which was why his choosing to stay cut deep. To her, staying at Hogwarts, with _them_ , wasn't the unfathomable decision, but the easy one. He didn't know that they had his mother. He didn't know that they would kill her. She meant what she said about going to get her. It would have been simple to apparate there, to save her from that ridiculous house before the Death Eaters even arrived.

She thought she understood him, and now she didn't. Why stay if you were unwilling? She knew that he was; he had to be, if threatening another life was the only way to make him loyal. Why stay if you had a way out? Hermione gave him one. It was like he threw another thousand puzzle pieces at her, taunting her to solve it. She didn't care for it. So she didn't think about it.

Why waste brain space on someone who should rot in Azkaban, anyway?

Hermione sighed, and turned to sit on the bed next to Ginny. She placed her arm around her, their heads touching from the proximity. The waves of worry that radiated from each of them collided and bounced against each other. Hermione felt herself already closing up again; she thought of everyone as just "the Order." But she knew Ginny thought of each of them by name: Harry, Ron, George, Bill, Fleur, Molly, Arthur. All of them, out there. Ginny carried it well, but her rounding thoughts were killing her.

"Can you get the owl?" Hermione asked softly. The only thing they found when they arrived at Grimmauld Place was a shaggy, thin owl, living in a nest of old fuzz that spilled from the living room couch. Hermione didn't recognize it, and considered it a stray, but it was friendly all the same.

"Why?"

"I'm going to write a letter."

"To who?"

"Someone who can help Luna."

Ginny got up and left the room, and Hermione found a tiny scrap of parchment to write on. Her words were few, so the size wasn't much of a problem. She only hoped that they would be able to find it tied to the owl's leg. Before she set it off, she gave it a stale cracker from the pantry.

"Please fly quickly," she whispered.

The owl blinked and spread its ragged wings, taking off without so much as a bobble.

* * *

It was early next morning when the owl came back. Hermione awoke to a light tapping at the living room window, surprise flitting through her at seeing its silhouette behind the hazy glow cast by the sun. She raced to the window, prying it open to see a parcel as large as the owl, its innocent blinks revealing no exhaustion.

"Thank you," she whispered earnestly, giving the owl another cracker. It took it hesitantly before hopping into the living room and hiding in its cover of fuzz.

The parcel was heavy. Hermione ripped open the brown packaging, ignoring the parchment tied to it. Inside was a countless number of large vials and jars labelled neatly with pristine, cursive handwriting. There was also a book, _The Introductory Healer's Handbook to Healing_. She picked it up, thinking that the title was rather self-explanatory even if they held off on adding "to Healing." There was a small note pasted to the front.

_You need this more than I do._

There was a variety of supplies: burn-healing paste, antidote to common poisons, calming draught, sleeping draught, blood-replenishing potion, and an incredible amount of Dittany. Hermione almost laughed; they would be prepared for anything! She picked up the piece of parchment from the floor, the cursive script the same as the labels.

_This is all I could spare. Made by yours truly. I couldn't take from the family supply. Give her the antidote, then Dittany. Don't write again. They're intercepting owls._

_Daphne_

Hermione immediately grabbed what Daphne indicated, and went to the other couch to wake Luna. Ginny was kneeling on the floor next to Luna, their heads close. She was grasping the other girl's hand tightly even in sleep.

"Luna," Hermione whispered, shaking her lightly.

Luna hummed, her eyes fluttering open and darting around in confusion. "Mum?"

Hermione blinked, thanking any forces out there that their owl could fly so quickly. "It's me, Hermione. I need you to drink this."

Luna obeyed, her chapped lips barely touching the vial as she drank. As soon as she put her head down, she was out again. Hermione worked quickly, lifting her shirt and removing the blood-soaked gauze to pour Dittany on the cut. Luna frowned in her sleep at the sting, but the wound was soon sewn together, barely a pink scar on her side.

When Hermione pulled back, sitting against the coffee table, Ginny was staring at her with tears in her eyes.

"It came?"

"It came," Hermione said, relief coursing through her blood like a drug.

"Who did you write?"

Hermione smiled to herself, looking at the vials in her hands.

"A Healer."

* * *

They updated Luna as soon as she could stand again. She sat at the kitchen table, munching on a row of stale crackers thoughtfully. Sometimes she gave one to the owl, who was perched on her shoulder and nestled in her wild blonde hair. Ginny had taken to calling him Mutt, because Hermione wasn't able to determine what type of owl he was after a day of research. He reminded Hermione of Hedwig, in that he was quiet and always watching them with big, round eyes.

"We could send Mutt out with a letter," Ginny suggested. She was washing the countertops; cleaning Grimmauld Place became her pastime.

"No," Hermione said. "The Healer said they were intercepting owls. I don't even think _he's_ small enough to avoid getting caught."

"He's fast."

"We don't even know where they are," Luna said softly. "It's not like he could find them."

"I bet he could. Look at those big eyes. It's like he's looking right through me." Ginny gestured with her rag.

Mutt stared at them, blinking once.

"I think he thinks it would be a bad idea," Luna guessed, giving him another cracker.

"I didn't hear him say that."

"What did you hear, Ginny?" Luna asked.

"He says that we should _do_ something."

"I don't think we can," Hermione said, picking at a split piece of wood on the table.

"What about a patronus call?"

"I'm not interrupting whatever they're doing with a patronus call. It's for emergencies _only_."

"This _is_ an emergency," Ginny argued. She scrubbed at the counter harder than necessary.

"What could we possibly say?" Hermione twisted in her seat, fixing Ginny with frown. "Hi guys, we're all safe here at Grimmauld Place. Any updates per the situation of the world?"

"That's exactly what I would say."

" _No_ ," Hermione said sternly.

Ginny threw her hands in the air, exasperated. "I can't just sit here and do nothing! They need our help!"

"We _are_ helping!"

"How exactly are we helping?!" Ginny shouted, her face turning red. "I'm sitting here cleaning some abandoned old house while they are probably _dying_ in a freak Death Eater uprising!"

"We're keeping a safehouse," Luna said calmly. "They'll need a place to retreat to with people they can trust. We're that."

Ginny placed her hands on her hips and stared at them, an image that reminded Hermione of Mrs. Weasley. She held her tongue, knowing that Ginny would hate the comparison.

"I've never felt so useless in my life," she finally whispered.

They split off on their own throughout the day, making pastimes out of Grimmauld Place. Ginny cleaned feverishly. The kitchen was soon thick with magic as pots and counters were scrubbed by charmed utensils. Brooms swept clouds of dust from the floor every day, somehow finding more filth even after making their rounds. The whole bottom floor was spotless from a couple days of Ginny's cleaning. Even so, the house still gave off a profoundly mundane and matte air that only very old houses can despite being cleaned in every nook and cranny. It looked greyer than before, even with Ginny's best efforts. At least the spiderwebs were gone.

Luna sometimes helped clean, but not for more than an hour or so. Her side was still aching, and she was taking blood-replenishing potion to heal further. If one needed to find Luna, they had to quietly walk up the stairs to the second floor and search every bedroom. She spent most of her time shuffling through the moldy, abandoned belongings that remained with patience that neither Ginny nor Hermione possessed. They weren't sure what she was looking for, until she came rushing down the stairs just before dinner one day.

"Old Order plans," she wheezed out, slamming a yellowed piece of parchment on the table and sitting roughly.

Hermione stood from her seat, the chair protesting with a groan. "Merlin, these are _old_ ," she whispered in awe. "Maybe from the First Order, old."

They were battle plans, from what Hermione could tell, but very secretive ones that relied on guerilla style tactics stolen from Muggle warfare. None of the brazenly rash battle plans that the Second Order was more accustomed to was present. She didn't recognize the place either, although she wasn't privy to much of the battles that happened during either war.

"I wonder how these even _got_ here," she murmured.

"Perhaps Harry's godfather?" Luna suggested.

"Think we should call this the Third Order?" Ginny called from the kitchen.

Luna smiled. "The Third Order with three members."

"Hey, all good Orders start with _something_ ," Ginny laughed. Hermione knew it was the way she got through; thinking that they were the start. They had the safehouse, the foundation of it all. It was the only thing that prevented her from storming out the door and wreaking havoc on any hooded figure she met.

Hermione didn't join either of them; instead, she sat at the kitchen table all day, and often into the wee hours of night, reading. _The Introductory Healer's Handbook to Healing_ was big, with small pictures and even smaller text. She couldn't guess how it was "introductory" until she noticed that it only went into small detail on everything, rather than providing any background knowledge to the magic involved. It normally would have bothered her, but Hermione was more focused on content instead of context. She didn't want to know why _tergeo_ worked; she wanted to know how to do it, and quickly. She practiced when it was applicable on decaying fruit from the back of cabinets, slicing open the soft skin and diligently copying wand movements from the book.

Unfortunately, only a small portion of healing magic dealt with surface wounds. Hermione thought that she was preparing well, and her memory and skill never failed her before, but she wouldn't know until the Order came. She certainly wasn't going to curse Luna or Ginny in the pursuit for knowledge.

Her habit of avoiding sleep to learn healing became a fortunate one nearly two weeks after Hogwarts was attacked. Ginny and Luna were asleep in the living room on opposite couches, but she was at the kitchen table, the light from her wand casting strange shadows throughout the room. A large racket came from the front parlor, _inside_ the house, and Hermione immediately froze. She dropped the page between her fingers and quickly snuffed out her light, standing silently and advancing toward the front door, her wand outstretched.

She knew she didn't have much time. She held her breath, intending to be as quiet as possible. The entire house was dark; she couldn't see them, but it comforted her to know that they couldn't see her either. Ginny and Luna were closest to the door, and she hadn't heard them stir. If the intruder walked into the living room—

"Where the bloody hell is the light?"

She nearly dropped her wand. " _Lumos maxima_ ," she shuddered out, and she came face to face with Ron Weasley, his face and hair nearly unidentifiable by the amount of blood and grime caked on them.

"Ron!" she shrieked, rushing toward him and pulling him closely to her. She heard a loud thud from the living room, and Ginny soon came into the parlor, her face nearly white with shock.

Ron grunted into her shoulder, wincing away. "Careful, Hermione, I've got _pains_!"

"Come, I can help." She grabbed his hand and pulled him into the kitchen, flicking the light on and bathing the room in old, yellow light. She sat him in one of the chairs roughly, ignoring his hiss as she dropped Daphne's parcel of healing supplies on the table. She only glanced at him as she fumbled with everything, her heart racing at nearly a million kilometers an hour.

"Where?" she asked gruffly.

"Merlin, Hermione, not even a 'nice to see you?'" He grinned at her, his bright blue eyes twinkling against his muddy skin.

"That's what the hug was for, Ronald," she answered, trying to be stern, but she couldn't stop a wide smile from spreading across her cheeks. She quickly came to his side, her wand poised. "Where?"

"Hermione, I'm fine—ow!"

She pushed at his shoulder and he recoiled, bringing a hand to cover himself protectively.

"Let her heal you, Ronald," Ginny lectured, swatting the back of his head lightly before wrapping her arms around his neck in a hug. " _Merlin_ , we thought you'd never come," she breathed out, her eyes closed.

Luna padded quietly in after her, sitting in the chair next to Ron and grabbing his hand tightly. "Hermione's very good," Luna insisted.

"I haven't done anything."

"You've been reading. And you healed me."

"She healed you?" Ron blurted, patting his sister's hand as she continued to hold him.

"Later." Hermione waved him off. "Now get off him, Ginny, I need to see what's wrong."

"It's _my_ brother, I'll be here as long as I want."

"I'm not an 'it,'" he teased, shouldering her away and pulling off his shirt gingerly to reveal a bloody splotch on his right shoulder blade.

"You've done nothing to convince me otherwise," Ginny retorted, pulling at his ear.

"Later" ended up being while Hermione healed him. She focused on the large mess of cuts, only looking back at her book once as Ginny babbled about everything. Ron interjected when needed while Ginny rambled, and only winced once when Hermione started wrapping gauze around his wound. She could feel his gaze on her as she worked though, intense and unwavering. Hermione bit her lip and willed herself not to turn red as he watched her, instead tucking the end of the gauze between itself and stepping back for a final once over. Her eyes (the traitors that they were) flicked to his bare chest for a fleeting second, and Ron allowed a small grin to slide over his features. Feeling heat rising to her cheeks, Hermione whirled away to put the medical supplies back in their overhead cabinet.

She didn't know when Ginny stopped talking, but it was suddenly heavy with everyone's silence, the elephant in the room massive and cramped within the small kitchen. Hermione slowly walked back to the table and sat across from the other three, fixing her gaze on Luna's firm grip on Ron's hand. It was as if he was preventing her from floating away. Hermione wanted to do it herself; she felt like she was in a dream, the edges of the room hazy where the yellowed ceiling light couldn't reach. She felt her excitement fading into dread at the thought of what Ron could update _them_ on.

"Where is everyone else?" Luna finally asked, her voice barely a whisper.

Ron shrugged, pausing only to pull his shirt back on. "Everywhere. There's a couple other safehouses I guess. Bill and Fleur went to Shell Cottage with Mum." He sighed, rubbing away at the dirt around his eye before looking at Ginny. "We don't know where Dad's at."

Ginny inhaled sharply, throwing her steely gaze back through the darkened hallway towards the front door. Hermione bit her lip, slumping even further into her chair.

"Not at the Burrow?" she asked tentatively.

Ron shook his head. "Mum was there, Bill and Fleur picked her up. She said he went to Diagon Alley after work to meet with a client, but…" Ron trailed off, his gaze faraway. "They occupied Diagon Alley apparently. And he wouldn't have gone back home, they know where it is. He'd be leading them right to Mum." He looked up then, his gaze meeting Hermione's warily. "Others are coming here soon. We had to go all over when we finally had the chance. Any time we apparated together, they'd find us. It was like they were tracking somehow."

" _Appare vestigium_ ," Hermione supplied.

Ron frowned. "That's only for traces. They'd have to be near us, they couldn't have used it to find where we're apparating."

"I suppose not," Hermione sighed. "The States have a variation of the spell to track hexes across their country, though. They might have used something similar, for a smaller area." Hermione leaned on the table, supporting her cheek with her hand. "I don't know. If you were using magic, they might have just flown overhead to find your trace."

"I guess. Shacklebolt finally told us all to split up, but who knows if that even worked—"

"Kingsley was with you?" Hermione blurted, surprise flitting through her.

Ron nodded. "We called for reinforcements and he came himself."

Hermione recoiled as if she was slapped in the face. "He's not at the Ministry?!"

"Hermione," Ron said gently, his shoulders dropping like he couldn't hold their weight any longer. "They took the Ministry."

Ginny snapped her head back to look at him, her eyes widening to the size of an ostrich's. Hermione's mouth dropped open, and she slowly stood from her seat, placing her hands on the table so she could properly lean closer to Ron.

" _What_?" she hissed venomously.

"You didn't know?" he asked incredulously.

"We don't know _anything_!"

"But I thought _The Prophet_ would have—"

" _The Prophet_ stopped coming!" Hermione seethed. She ripped herself away from the table, turning to stand in front of the small bay window behind them. She couldn't believe it. She watched the foggy glass, half wanting it to smudge the truth in the years old dust that lay between the panes. _That couldn't have happened_ , she hoped it would say. _He doesn't know what he's talking about_.

But no message came. The moon lit the houses behind them in ethereal blue, like a large Patronus Charm lighting the pitch of night. The more she thought about it, the more it made sense. Why else would _The Prophet_ stop? Why else could they not receive any updates? The Ministry was gone, probably left to ruin like their school. Her lip trembled as she imagined the statue of Muggles the last time she was there, suffering and carrying the weight of the wizarding world on their backs. For the first time since the war ended, she felt justified in sending Wendell and Monica Wilkins to Australia, without a care in the world about magic or half-Kneazles or a daughter that could move things with a wood stick.

But she didn't want to feel justified. As the guilt dissolved to the back of her brain, Hermione missed it, and more than ever did she wish that Death Eaters would die and stay dead. She wished that she never had a reason to be right.

"How?" Luna asked, breaking Hermione's thoughts and bringing her back to Grimmauld Place.

"I guess they occupied during the same night Hogwarts was attacked. When people came to work the next morning, they were met with a bunch of wands to the face." Ron let go of Luna's hand and placed his elbows on the table. "Kingsley came straight to us that day."

"Where is he now?" Hermione asked, turning back to the three of them.

"He's with Harry—"

"Harry?" Ginny's face morphed, her eyebrows knitting in concern. "Where is he? Is he okay?"

Ron opened his mouth, fumbling to say anything, but stopped, his hands coming up to cover his face.

"No."

Ginny recoiled before springing from her chair. "What do you mean, ' _no_ '?!"

"I don't know! He was hit, it was nothing like I've seen before, and he couldn't apparate by the end of it—"

"The _end_ of it?!" Ginny shouted.

"No, Gin, that's not what I meant!"

"Where _is_ he?!"

"They're still in Salcey! He needs a Healer, Shacklebolt was trying to patronus the ones he knew but no one was bloody coming by the time I left." Ron stood up, tentatively reaching toward his sister. "Once he gets a Healer, he'll be okay, I swear it."

Ginny was breathing heavily and trying to contort her face to hide the panic setting on her features. Hermione looked between the two of them, her own heart beating rapidly at the thought of Harry being injured so badly that he couldn't apparate. Without thinking clearly, she stepped forward.

"Take me to him."

Ron twisted. "What?"

"I can heal him. Take me to Salcey Forest." Hermione rushed to the overhead cabinet, pulling out all the healing supplies and placing them on the counter before heading to the living room to search for a bag. After a moment's hesitation, Ron's loud footsteps chased after her.

"I'm not bringing you there, there could be Death Eaters waiting for an ambush."

"I wasn't asking."

"Hermione—"

She whirled to face him, putting on a brave face despite the protests of fear coursing through her veins.

"You said no one was coming. Probably for good reason, but not coming, nonetheless. If Harry's as bad as you say, I'm the only chance he's got."

Hermione stepped forward and grabbed his forearm tightly, willing him to listen. His fingers wrapped gently around her instinctively, leaving goosebumps that chilled her. "I can't sit here and let him die," she whispered. "You and him are the only family I have."

Ron didn't even breathe as his eyes searched her own. His hand reached for her face, brushing a stray strand of wild hair from her face and behind her ear. He stayed there for a moment, a long moment that made Hermione weak in the knees. As he dropped his hand, he nodded.

"Okay."

* * *

Hermione hated side-alongs. The ground came more quickly than she expected and she lurched forward, losing her grip on Ron's hand and stumbling toward a dark tree. Her arms instinctively lifted to protect her head as she curled in, her back slamming into the base of the tree as she landed on her side. She started to groan, pain radiating through her back like shock waves, but Ron rushed forward and covered her mouth.

"Sorry," he whispered sheepishly. "They're just up ahead, but we have to be quiet." He helped her up, and Hermione took a quick peek into her bag, assuring herself that none of the vials were broken. Ron cast a dim _lumos_ and started trudging through the low brush.

"Won't they be disillusioned?" Hermione whispered back, picking up her pace to catch up with his long legs.

"Yeah. I'm hoping that someone will be outside keeping watch."

The trees glared down at them menacingly as they walked, their shadows long and pitch black against the moon and Ron's light. He kept his wand low, clearly knowing where he was going, which left Hermione to run into invisible attacks from the rocks hidden on their trail – more than she'd care to admit. When Ron suddenly stopped in front of her, she ran into him as she fruitlessly stared at the ground for any sort of warning to what was below her.

"A little heads up next time, perhaps?"

He shushed her, carefully reaching in front of him with his left hand. "It should be about here, but I can't be sure…"

A dark silhouette appeared before them as ripples of the Disillusionment Charm went through the invisible wall before them. Ron raised his wand, shining it directly in the silhouette's face.

" _Fuck_ , not in the eyes, man!" it hissed, stepping back and bringing their hand up as a shield.

"Ernie?" Hermione gasped out.

Ernie Macmillan shifted his gaze back to them as Ron lowered his wand, a large cut down the side of his face that stuck to and stained his dirty blond hair to a dark brown. He looked confusedly between the two of them, his eyes narrowed.

"Yes," he said slowly. "What are you doing back here?" he asked, addressing Ron. "I thought you went to London."

"Hermione has been practicing healing spells," Ron replied, gesturing behind him. "She wouldn't take no for an answer."

Ernie threw up his eyebrows, scoffing lightly. "Good thing she didn't. He needs something, at least. Come on in."

He waved his wand as he turned, allowing them both to step through what Hermione assumed to be many charms and shields around the site. She felt the blockade rippling around her and was suddenly bathed in the light of a campfire, its bright orange flames licking at the air greedily. There was a small tent, similar to the one the Weasley's had during the Quidditch World Cup in fourth year, sitting just past the fire and nearly glowing like a pumpkin during Halloween. Ernie kneeled and tossed a pile of sticks on the fire, making it crack violently before opening a flap of the tent and holding it open for them. Ron stepped in, ducking his head to miss the top of the tent. Before Hermione could follow, Ernie held his arm across her chest, stopping her.

"Did he tell you anything?" he asked.

Hermione looked up at him, feeling more uncertain than ever. She clutched _The Introductory Healer's Handbook to Healing_ closely, hoping that she could absorb all its contents.

"Only that he's never seen anything like it."

The corners of Ernie's lips pulled upwards for a microsecond, attempting a close-lipped smile. "Don't try Dittany," he advised. "It makes it worse."

Hermione blinked, unsuccessfully steeling herself, and walked into the tent.

As expected, the tent was larger on the inside. There was hardly anything in it; three beds, a small lamp on the floor, and a banner on the back wall that proclaimed "Beat Those Bludgers Back, Boys!" in Puddlemere's navy blue and gold (Hermione didn't know whose banner _that_ could have been – she didn't know of any fan of Puddlemere in the Weasley family). Ron was sitting on the left most bed, his elbows resting on his knees as he scratched at his head. Kingsley Shacklebolt was standing near the middle of the tent, his wand raised in what seemed to be in the middle of a diagnostic spell. He looked up at Hermione as she entered, his face slack with exhaustion.

Hermione nearly dropped her book when she saw Harry, her hand coming to smack over her mouth. He was completely devoid of color, as white as a sheet of paper and shiny with sweat. With his shirt off, she could see a black, spidery splatter just to the left of his stomach. Hermione dared to step closer and saw that it was really a shallow hole in his skin, like an acid eating away at him. It sparkled like glitter against the light of the lamp, and she swore that it moved, another thin line of dark muck shooting out from the middle of the wound and slapping over a new patch of skin, hissing as it made contact. Harry didn't move, his eyes squeezed shut.

"We had to put him out," Kingsley said. "The pain is unbearable."

"What is it?" Hermione shuddered out.

Kingsley sighed heavily. "I don't know."

Hermione sat next to Harry, the splatter seeming to bubble right in front of her eyes. "A spell?" she asked weakly.

"Yes, but…" Kingsley sat next to her. "I only know a simple diagnostic spell. It comes up as a poison, but the antidote does nothing. Dittany makes it grow more than it already is. We have nothing."

Hermione put her book and bag on the floor, knowing in her bones that none of their contents could help her now. It was clearly dark magic; the kind she fervently avoided and wanted nothing to do with. She wracked her brain, trying to think of anything that could be useful, but everything was blank. All she could do was watch the wound as it writhed on Harry's skin, like it had a mind of its own. She was vaguely reminded of the Dark Mark on Malfoy's forearm, how the snake grew and twisted as if sentient.

For the briefest moment, she wondered if Malfoy would know what to do. But the splatter jumped again, landing on another part of Harry's skin, and she quickly dismissed the thought. For all she knew, Malfoy cast the spell himself.

She ripped her gaze away from the splatter to look at Harry's face, contorted in a terrifying grimace. She heard Daphne's faraway voice, twinkling but panicked. _He's going to die if I don't do it right!_ She felt her own fear grab at her heart, puncturing her with its long talons.

_He's going to die if you don't do anything!_

Her breath hissed as she inhaled, and she raised her wand. "Ron, get the gauze from my bag," she ordered, her voice shaky. Ron snapped his head up, his eyes wide, and jumped to his feet and rummaged through the bag.

"As soon as I say," Hermione continued, "you need to wrap up the area with all the gauze we have."

"All of it?"

"All of it. We need to cover as much area as possible, so it doesn't have the chance to attach anywhere."

Ron nodded once, biting his lip and looking completely unsure of what she was saying at all. Hermione didn't care. Taking a deep breath, she closed her eyes and sent a prayer to whatever allowed Mutt to fly so quickly, to whatever let Luna live, and to whatever gave her the courage to ask to be in Gryffindor.

" _Reducio_ ," she said, pointing her wand at the center of the splatter.

Immediately, the black mass began to shrink, its tendrils retreating to its center and leaving red, irritated imprints behind on the skin. Hermione focused all her energy on it, forcing the splatter to disappear. It started to shake and squirm, threatening to burst on the entire interior of the tent. And then, it started to scream.

At first, it was barely a whisper, and Hermione thought that her ears were ringing from the amount of magic she was coursing into her wand. But it grew, its shrieking shaking the room as it fought against her. Harry started to convulse, his shouts and protests mingling with the high-pitched screaming until Hermione was only surrounded by white noise. The wound continued to fight, the skin around it becoming inflamed and dotting with blood as the tendrils were ripped from its surface. Hermione cried out, squeezing her eyes shut and willing the splatter to shrink, fighting against it with all her might. When she was sure it was tiny, reduced to merely a speck or a mole, she looked up at Ron, their gazes locking.

"Now!" she shrieked.

He immediately covered the wound, with Kingsley lifting and turning Harry to his side so Ron could easily wrap his entire torso with the gauze. Hermione was thrown back against the bed behind her, her head slamming against the metal frame with a clang.

"Fuck!" she shouted, opening her eyes only to see double of everything in the tent. She gasped, the dizzy motions making her nauseous. Her head lolled over her shoulder to see Ernie rushing into the entrance, his voice fuzzy and waxing and waning like a failed radio broadcast.

"We need—go—Dea—aters—fuck—appa—"

Hermione lifted her hands to cradle her head, the blood in her ears whooshing over intense ringing. She could feel trails of wetness on her cheeks that dribbled down her chin. There was suddenly hands covering her own, lifting her face to look up. The last thing she saw was Ron's piercing blue eyes as the world faded into darkness.

* * *

Hermione didn't know where she was. She opened her eyes to an ugly, green ceiling and a brain-splitting headache. Her entire body was sore, so sore that she couldn't move without fear of tearing muscles she didn't know existed. Her tongue hurt, of all things.

With great difficulty, she turned her head and immediately squinted against the bright sunlight coming through a billowing pair of curtains. She raised her hand weakly, attempting to cover her eyes, and saw Ernie Macmillan in the process. He was sitting near her bed, slumped on the chair with his head resting against his shoulder, clearly asleep.

"Ernie?" she croaked.

He immediately sat up, shock evident on his face.

"Oh shit."

He got up and practically sprinted to the door, his hair a mess of cowlicks and his cotton t-shirt wrinkled. Without saying a word, he left the room, only to slowly back in, his eyebrows knitting. Hermione barely registered that his cut was merely a white scar now, and fading.

"Uh, I'll be right back. Don't move."

Before she could say anything, he was gone and probably tumbling down the stairs (at least, according to the racket out in the hallway).

"I _can't_ ," she muttered to herself, her tongue thick and clumsy. It wasn't long before the racket was back, and nearly a million people filed into the room (at least, from what a very overwhelmed Hermione could tell).

"Hermione!" Ginny screeched, bowling from behind everyone and nearly falling on top of her, clutching her neck so tightly she could choke.

"Ow! Ginny, that hurts—"

"What in the bloody hell were you thinking?!" Ginny yelled, pulling away with a stern frown filling her features. "Who knows what could have happened? Thank _Merlin_ that—"

"Step aside, Ginny. I need to run a diagnostic." Kingsley Shacklebolt appeared from behind Ginny, sliding closer to Hermione and pulling out his wand.

"She was saving your _boyfriend_ , Gin. Try to wrap that around your thick head," Ron teased, moving to stand at the end of the bed.

"I don't _have_ a thick head, Ronald. Maybe we should try wrapping it around _yours_."

"I think she did a very good job," Luna said, practically apparating by the other side of Hermione's bed. She sat down in Ernie's chair, pulling it close. "Harry's doing much better," she continued, her voice soft. "He's still in bed, but he has so much color now, and the Wrackspurts are practically gone."

"You're lucky she went," Ron said loudly, still arguing with Ginny. "I would've never thought of shrinking it. I didn't even know you could do that."

"Me either," Hermione mumbled quietly. Luna smiled at her.

"It was dangerous!" Ginny spluttered. "She's lucky she could apparate back!"

"You're still magically drained," Kingsley said, somehow controlling the atmosphere of the room and quieting the siblings. "But I will bet that a little food and water will help that quickly." He smiled at her, and left the room as quickly as he came, his Ministry robes billowing behind him. The other three watched her with varying faces of excitement and happiness. Hermione couldn't help but feel the same.

"Let's just call it like it is," Ernie said, coming back into the room and leaning against the doorframe. "A lucky win."

Hermione smiled at him. It was good to have a win.

* * *

As soon as she could stand again, Hermione checked on Harry. He was in the bedroom next to hers and practically drowning in pillows. She knocked quietly at the door, and he lifted his head, his glasses crooked and bent at the middle.

"I was wondering when I'd get a visit from the brightest witch of our age," he said hoarsely, a smile spreading across his cheeks.

Hermione smiled and waved him off, stepping into the room and sitting at the chair next to his bed. "I just know spells, Harry. That doesn't make me bright in any age." She took her wand from her pocket and wordlessly cast an _occulus reparo_ , watching his glasses magically straighten and right themselves on his face.

"Inventing a new healing technique does," he pointed out.

"Well, I had to do that. It's not like I sought to."

Harry chuckled, shaking his head lightly. Hermione watched him, feeling the glow of seeing him well slowly fade.

"It's been fine?" she asked tentatively.

"Perfect, I'd say. At least, if I got out of bed quicker it would be."

Hermione hummed in agreement. "And it hasn't come back?"

"Not at all. It's barely there now. I just have an ugly red spot." He tilted his head, his eyes glinting playfully. "Maybe find a way to get rid of _that_ , and you'll be the brightest witch of the age."

She couldn't say why, but she looked at him and just started laughing. She laughed so much her sides hurt and her cheeks felt like splitting. Harry joined in, albeit a bit held back in what she assumed to be pain. When she finally stopped, she had to wipe below her eyes to get rid of the tiny tears that slipped through.

"Merlin, I haven't laughed in a long time," she said softly.

"Me either," he said. He leaned back, allowing his head to rest on the pillow behind him. "Thank you."

"Of course, Harry. I'd do it again."

He nodded, his eyes blinking heavily. "I know."

Hermione reached to squeeze at his hand before leaving to let him sleep.

* * *

It was almost two weeks into November when he could walk again, with the help of pain-relieving potion. He took tentative steps around the second floor, sometimes helping Luna go through the rooms she hadn't gotten to before in search of more Order plans. He and Kingsley would talk for long periods of time at night, skipping dinner more than once. The win slowly became a moment of the past, and Grimmauld Place seemed to lose its yellow tint as the resurgence closed in on them again.

Ron and Ernie would go to the back porch often to practice dueling. Hermione found out that Ernie was in Auror training with them, and had left his first station of the job to answer their call for reinforcements the night they were ambushed. "I figure I can't get fired for it now, since the Ministry's dissolved anyway," he said, not noticing Hermione's wide stare and Ginny's subtle head shake. Kingsley had been right behind him, having just walked into the kitchen as he admitted to leaving his post. But Kingsley only smiled, shaking his head and muttering something to the effect of acting the same way.

Kingsley himself was receiving correspondence from other Order members in every which way: owls, patronus calls, letters hidden in between the pages of the Muggle post. All of them indicated that they were in hiding, and waiting for his call to action. But he stated many times to the rest of the group (especially to Ginny, who practically woke up ready to fight) that they didn't know enough yet. One of his primary concerns was just how many there were – there had to be hundreds of Death Eaters in order to stage an assault on two of the biggest magical landmarks in the country. He spent most of his time in the upstairs office, reading up on whatever intelligence he could gather on the movements of the Death Eaters. There had been no attacks since Hogwarts, the Ministry, and Diagon Alley. It was like they were waiting too.

Hermione didn't know what for, though. But she would remember the next strike – when it came – for months afterwards. The details were ingrained in her mind. It was November 16th, 1998. She knew because _The Prophet_ started publishing again, and part of her job (it wasn't assigned by anyone but herself) was to go through every page and search for any truth in the Death Eater propaganda. By now, the entirety of England – and probably the world – knew about the resurgence. She was reading a segment on the unanimous vote to revoke Kingsley from office when there was a clatter downstairs. Thinking it was nothing, perhaps Ginny running into something while trying to train Mutt, she went back to reading. But then she heard spells crashing into the walls, and shot out of her chair and raced downstairs, her heart pounding. Hermione pulled out her wand as she rounded the corner of the living room, expecting to see bodies laying on the floor and scorch marks on the ceiling.

"Tell me what the _fuck_ you're doing here or I will hex your bloody head off!" Ron shouted. She could see him in the hallway ahead, a paralyzing scowl tainting his features. As she passed the wall, she raised her wand, a spell on her lips, only to have it clatter to the floor.

She dropped her wand because it was Malfoy. In the flesh. His hair wildly floating in every direction, his black suit jacket rumpled, a scorch mark in his dragonhide shoes that still glowed orange at the edges. His hands were up – he didn't even have his wand – and the shadows bent toward him as if being beckoned.

"Malfoy?" she gasped out.

"Get out of the way Hermione, I'm about to end this pathetic ferret's life."

"You don't have the nerve," Malfoy seethed, his voice icy enough to drop the foyer's temperature.

"Try me!"

Malfoy dropped his hands, reminding Hermione of action movies where the character taunts their enemy to strike, and lifted his chin haughtily.

"I dare you."

Ron's lips screwed into a grimace, and he reared his wand arm back to strike.

"Wait!" Without thinking, Hermione shoved herself into Ron's side, pushing him into the wall. He smacked his nose, a crack echoing through the hallway, and he crumpled to the ground.

"What the fuck, Hermione?!" he demanded, his voice muffled behind his hands as he held his nose.

"Why are you here?" Hermione asked sternly, ignoring Ron. When Malfoy didn't say anything, she picked up her wand and stalked toward him, shoving it at his neck and making him back into the door.

"Don't make me regret saving your life, ferret," she hissed.

"Please, Granger," Malfoy drawled. "Weaslebee doesn't have the balls."

"But _I_ do," she threatened, glowering. "Why are you here?"

He sniffed, glancing between her and her wand before smacking her arm away. Before the air could crack or her blood could even boil, though, he chilled her to the bone.

"They killed her."

The tension in her shoulders was gone. For once in her life, she wished Malfoy lied.

"They killed my mother," he said, now only leaning against the door for support. He stepped forward, towering over her, and she instinctively backed away, not frightened for herself but for whoever had done it. She couldn't be sure if the light above them flickered because it was old or because of him, if the shadows always bent that way in the foyer or if he was truly drawing them in. His eyes, closer to her than they had ever been, held a storm, and she swore she saw lightning.

"I'm here to make sure every last one of them burns."


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> just want to warn all of you, there is some heavy stuff in this chapter. I'll put a small summary at the bottom of the parts I'm talking about just in case. thank you for all the kind words thus far!

* * *

4

_"May God have mercy for my enemies because I won't."_

_George S. Patton Jr._

* * *

"You must have known that we'd want a little more of an explanation."

Malfoy glared at her petulantly from his end of the kitchen table, his jaw clenched. While everyone else in Grimmauld Place conferred in Kingsley's office, Hermione was sitting across from him alone, watching dusk turn to nightfall as he continued to be a stubborn brat. Ron had placed him in a pair of Auror-issued cuffs that blocked the flow of magic, not saying a word before heading upstairs and slamming the door behind him.

They wanted her down here because they thought that she would be the only one he'd talk to. Ginny mentioned how he helped Hermione find her during the attack, which, when paired with the fact that he gave some semblance of a reason for his appearance at their safe house to her, was enough to base that ridiculous conclusion off of. Hermione thought that he wouldn't say a word, and he hadn't.

She was a little more preoccupied with Ron, anyway. She knew he was pissed, but she couldn't tell which part of her betrayal had set him off. Was it that she allowed Malfoy to help her that night at Hogwarts? Or the fact that she could stand to be in a room alone with him (albeit barely)? Or was it because she pushed him into a wall to stop him from hexing Malfoy?

_At least no one knows about the Ancient Runes tutoring_ , she thought. She wondered if Ron would go his mother's route and send a howler for that, or if he'd turn into one himself.

Hermione sighed, bringing her elbows up to rest on the table, her mind racing for a way to get him to at least say _something_. It didn't even have to be about his appearance. It could be about the physical limitation of flying pigs for all she cared. The light flickered above them twice, and Hermione glanced up, folding her arms across her chest. She knew the lights never did that in here, regardless how old the house was.

She focused back on Malfoy, her mind whirling. She was certain he couldn't have done it; the Auror cuffs would have prevented it. But she was also certain that she didn't do it either.

Malfoy slumped into the back of his chair and crossed his ankle over his knee. His bound hands were setting nicely in his lap. As she continued to watch him, his face never broke from the scowl painted there. A chair scraped across the floor above them, and someone started to pace. Finally, Hermione decided to just say the truth.

"I'm confused."

Nothing. Hermione bit her lip.

"I…I don't understand why you're here," she continued. "And I would like it if you enlightened me."

She felt like he was boring into her. His chin tilted downward slightly, a calculating eyebrow raised.

"I would like it if I didn't have to spell it out again for you," he said testily.

Hermione narrowed her eyes. "You haven't spelled anything out. In fact, I don't think you could've been less clear."

"How was I not clear?" he snapped, tilting his head sharply. "I gave my reason and my primary motivation for being here. _I'm_ confused as to how you don't understand what I said."

"Malfoy," she breathed out, exasperated. "I'm sorry, but what you've said and how you've _acted_ haven't been nearly good enough. They don't trust you," she pointed out, gesturing out the hallway. "And if you don't talk to _me_ , you'll have to talk to someone who is far less generous than I am."

He stared at her for a moment, and barked out a laugh, his face splitting into a cruel smile. "I'm glad you think so highly of yourself, Granger," he said, his voice completely devoid of any gladness at all. "You're truly high on your pedestal today. Do your precious Order members know that they aren't as generous as you?"

"You don't have any grounds to insult me," Hermione replied, straightening in her chair. "I am the only thing standing between you and captivity. I'm sure that's what all of them are discussing with Kingsley now." She lifted her chin. "This might as well be the waiting room to Azkaban for you."

Malfoy leaned forward, his eyes glinting. "Shacklebolt isn't the Minister anymore. He can't touch me."

"He is here. And I'm sure that the smallest cell in prison has your name on it if you don't talk."

Malfoy laughed again, and Hermione flinched. He dropped his head to look at the kitchen table, shaking his head. "There won't ever be a cell for me, Granger." He looked up, looking absolutely gleeful. "Because you won't win," he finished darkly.

Hermione felt her resolve falter. Her breath halted as the conversation shifted, as he suddenly held all the straws. She felt impossibly trapped, and suddenly pulled into the realization that this was a _war_. Winning implied battle. It hadn't even been a consideration for her, or for anyone (at least she thought). It was just a resurgence before, but she was now thrown into something that she wasn't ready for. Not again.

"W-We will," she said quietly, not even convincing herself. Because she didn't know, and it scared her that Malfoy was so sure.

"You won't without me," he replied.

"Then _talk_ ," she implored, leaning forward to rest her forearms on the table. "Tell me what happened. If I can tell them that, then you might have the chance to stay. To get what you want."

Malfoy pressed his lips together and turned his attention to the bay window. Hermione tried to read him, her eyes tracing down the profile of his nose to his chin to his jaw, but she found nothing. There was nothing to see between the hard lines of his face.

"So you trust me, then?" he finally asked.

Hermione balked. "Hardly."

"You keep saying 'they.' 'They' don't trust me." He blinked and glanced at her from the corner of his eye. "As in not you."

"I'm not even close to trusting you," she gritted out.

He nodded once. "Then stop feeling sorry for me."

Hermione scoffed, pushing herself away from the table. "I couldn't possibly—"

"I'm not one of your precious causes that you can stick your nose into," he snapped. "If you don't trust me, then you should be upstairs with the rest of them. I don't want your pity, and I don't want to be some case that your conscience pleads you to interfere with."

Hermione glared at him, her ears beginning to ring with the sound of her already thin string of patience snapping. "I don't feel sorry for you at all, Malfoy," she seethed. "In fact, the only reason I'm here is because I was ordered to be, and because a part of me has the audacity to believe you when you say we won't win."

"Congratulations, Granger," he taunted, pushing himself into the back of his chair roughly. "You've finally convinced me that you're half as smart as everyone says you are. You can run along and place my admiration with whatever else satiates your giant ego."

Hermione rocketed from her chair, the loose strands of hair from her bun floating around her head like a halo. "You're some prat, and I hope you know it!" she shouted. "I don't need this. I'll just tell everyone else to let you rot in the back porch." She turned and started to storm out of the room.

"Why isn't wanting revenge enough?!" he shouted at her back, and she froze in the middle of the doorway, her shoulders tensing. She whirled to face him, her face twisting incredulously, and before he could jerk away, she stalked back and grabbed his forearm, ripping back his sleeve to reveal the ugly tattoo.

"Because you have _this_ ," she hissed. "And there are enough people that want and _deserve_ revenge on you, too."

Malfoy glared down at the Dark Mark with disgust, a look she previously thought he only reserved for her. She dropped his arm and let his hands fall to the table with a thud. He couldn't reach to pull his sleeve down himself, instead leaving it out in the open to mar the kitchen with an intense blackness, the skull seeming to smile up at them maliciously. Standing over him, Hermione could clearly see the dark circles stamped over Malfoy's eyes, making him look positively skeletal. He looked up at her, inhaling deeply.

"Do you?" he asked quietly.

Hermione frowned. She'd never in her life felt the need for revenge. She had been intensely angry at the world, and often found herself chasing justice like it was a precious jewel, but never sought revenge before. She gritted her teeth, a lie at the tip of her tongue, but she couldn't bring herself to say it.

"No," she conceded, wishing that she had the care and energy to kick him while he was down. Malfoy's eyebrows raised slightly in surprise.

"Don't get me wrong," she blurted. "I think you're a pompous git, arrogant, and you have enough pride to fill five other people your size with absolutely nothing to show for it. And quite frankly, I think you're stupid for insulting us." She stepped forward, taking her chance to for once tower over him. "But I couldn't care less for revenge. Even if I didn't, you aren't worth the effort."

He breathed out a ghost of a laugh and sat back to meet her gaze properly. "Right," he drawled. "Well, forgive _me_ if I couldn't care less to tell you what happened."

Hermione felt a niggling in the back of her brain, and before she could think twice, her conscience willed her to extend a bit of sympathy, regardless if he didn't want it.

"When did it happen?"

Malfoy closed his eyes, and he suddenly looked unbearably wary. "Two days ago."

Hermione remembered what two days ago felt like. She remembered the guilt that ate away at her, waking her up at night from dreams where she did something differently. She remembered an intense fury, and lashing out over the most trivial things with Ron while they hunted for Horcruxes. But most prominently, she remembered letting her tears fall when no one was looking, the fear of possibly being alone for the rest of her life incasing her in a dark, claustrophobia-inducing shroud. She sat in the closest chair next to him and kept her face straight, refusing to admit that she knew he was grieving, and that perhaps he was justified in saying nothing at all.

"Just tell me why," she pleaded. "There must have been a reason."

Malfoy opened his eyes. "I've seen them kill people for no reason at all, Granger," he said, his tone past any anger or denial. "They don't need one."

"For her, they do."

He sighed deeply, turning to stare out the window. "I refused to do something."

Surprise flitted through her. "What?"

"It doesn't matter," he said tiredly. "I refused, and she's dead."

Hermione fought against her curiosity, her belief that no, it did matter, that anything more he said might convince her to let him stay. She held her tongue and stood up.

"I'll see what I can do."

* * *

When Hermione walked into Kingsley's office, she was met with varying gazes of distress and a heavy tension within the room. Ron looked like steam would blow out of his ears like a teapot. Harry was sitting across from Kingsley at the desk, supporting his head in his hand and appearing rather pale. Kingsley himself looked to be thoroughly done with everything the world had thrown at him recently, his hands folded against his chest as he slumped uncharacteristically in his armchair.

"So?" Ginny blurted, leaning her shoulder against one of the rickety bookcases at the back of the room.

"I didn't get much," Hermione sighed, stepping fully into the room. "But he talked."

"I'd say," Ernie grunted. "We could hear you from up here."

"Oh." Hermione shifted uncomfortably. "Sorry."

"Now the ferret's down there by himself," Ron remarked snidely, his eyes darkening to resemble the bottom of the sea. Hermione frowned at him.

"We took his wand and he's bound, Ron. He's not going anywhere."

"Vouching for _him_ now, are we?" he snarked.

"I'll go downstairs," Luna offered. "If it will make you feel better."

Ron grimaced, nodding once, and Luna got up from the floor and drifted over the grimy rug, giving Hermione's shoulder a squeeze as she passed and shutting the door behind her. Ernie stood from his chair and pulled it out for Hermione, and she sat tentatively.

"Well," she said simply, completely unsure of where to start. She raised her shoulders, her mouth opening and closing as she fumbled. "His mother's dead."

Harry blinked at her. "And?"

Hermione picked at her fingernails nervously. "He's…adamant. About being here."

Ron scoffed, pushing himself from the wall to pace by the desk.

"Did he tell you what happened?" Ginny asked behind her.

"Barely. He said he refused an order, and they killed her."

Kingsley sighed deeply, his eyes set on the black hawthorn wand resting in the middle of the piles of parchment on his desk.

"That counts for something, doesn't it?" Ginny questioned.

"He's lying," Ron growled. "I'll bet he didn't even tell you what he refused."

Hermione glared at him. "No, but that's hardly—"

"Are you _actually_ going to defend him right now?" Ron snapped. He stalked towards her, leaning in threateningly. "He's a Death Eater, and a downright prat. Everything he does is slimy and evil, and he _lied_ to you."

"I happen to believe him, Ron," Hermione said lowly. He recoiled as if slapped in the face, his mouth twisting in rage.

"Have you forgotten all the other times he's lied and been a bloody _shit_?!" he shouted. "This is just some trap, and you're playing into it!" Ron straightened, an air of finality settling around him. "I say we keep him locked in a closet so he never sees the light of day again."

"How can you say that?!" Hermione screeched. "He's a _person_! You're sounding like a Death Eater yourself!"

"At least I don't fraternize with them!"

"Ron, shut up," Harry said loudly. "Before you say something you don't mean." She heard Harry shift next to her, and she begrudgingly turned her attention to him. He looked positively miserable, his green eyes failing to glow like they usually did. "Why do you believe him?" he asked gently.

"I—" Hermione spoke, but quickly stopped herself, because she didn't know why she did. "I don't know," she said softly. "I haven't the faintest idea, but I _do_ know he'd do anything for his mum. Even—" She froze, her eyes widening at the thought of admitting to everything that happened at Hogwarts between them and feeling uncertain if it was even her place to say where his loyalties lied. Her mind raced as everyone's gaze intensified; she felt like she'd look up and see hundreds of eyes peeling her from the inside out.

It was his sincerity and certainty that pushed her to decide. As much as her thoughts seemed wild and hysterical, they always returned to one point. She could see Malfoy smirking in her mind's eye, like he just distributed the first round of "Potter Stinks!" badges throughout their year and gotten away with it; like he had her beat. _You won't win_ , he taunted. _Not without me._

Hermione made a selfish, stupid decision. She chose to believe him, if only for a chance of having a fate other than a shallow grave in the hills of England, without a mourner or a funeral in the world at all. She didn't want to die, she didn't want Harry or Ron or Ginny or anyone else in the Order to die, and she had enough to regret in her life that trusting Malfoy seemed like the least of it all. What was one more risky decision compared to a whole war full of them?

"Even take the Dark Mark," she mumbled quietly, sealing the fate of the rest of the Order with one stroke. The room became stiff and airless, a sudden pressure decrease that made Hermione's ears sing caused by everyone else sucking in one synchronized, surprised breath.

"He said that?" Ernie said slowly, his eyebrows knitting together.

Hermione nodded, refusing to look anywhere but the floor. "They threatened her when he wouldn't take it. He did it to protect her."

She could feel the waves of Ron's fury radiating against her, and wasn't a bit surprised when he turned on his heel and slammed the door of the office so hard that the entire house shook. Ginny pushed herself off the bookcase, quickly following after him. "I'll talk to him," she said hurriedly before leaving.

Harry rubbed at his eyes for a long time. "Perhaps you should talk to Malfoy," he muttered, looking up to Kingsley. The other man nodded.

"I want to." He broke his stare with Malfoy's wand to fix Hermione sternly. "I trust your instincts," he said to her. "But if he only cooperates with you, he cannot stay."

Ernie left the wall and opened the door. "Luna!" he called. "Bring Malfoy!"

They waited in silence for the two pairs of footsteps ascending the stairs. Luna appeared in the doorway, blinking her powdery blue eyes rapidly, before allowing Malfoy to step into the room. His eyes darted between all of them before finally resting on Hermione, and she knew that he knew what she had said to them. He took a deep breath and straightened his shoulders, ever obsessed with the appearance of superiority.

"Leave us," Kingsley said shortly, and Hermione jumped at the order, rushing by Malfoy without even a glance. As Ernie and Luna walked downstairs with heavy footsteps, Harry closed the door behind them. Hermione stood frozen at the top of the stairs, unable to move as he limped to her side.

"What did he say to you, Hermione?"

She shook her head. "I told you."

"No you didn't," he said, and she turned sharply. "Malfoy has tormented us, tormented _you_ all our lives." he continued. "I don't believe that you'd vouch for him unless he said something that scared you."

She bit her lip, and felt tears threatening to spill on her cheeks. "He said we wouldn't win," she whimpered. "I—I couldn't stand it if we…if he was…" She turned away, covering her face with her hands. "We're in the middle of another war, Harry," she strangled out.

Harry wrapped his arm around her shoulder and they sat at the top of the stairs, trying to ignore the muffled voices behind them as Kingsley accepted Malfoy's request to join the Order.

* * *

She finally heard the office door open and shut hours later. Hermione rubbed at her eye and checked her watch, her eyebrows shooting upwards at seeing that it was nearly midnight. There was a clack of expensive shoes down the stairs, and she looked up to see Malfoy saunter past the living room, buttoning his now pristine suit jacket with a free hand. He appeared smarter than he did when he arrived; not one hair out of place, his entirely black ensemble absent from the wrinkles of captivity. He almost seemed to glow in the gloom, and she couldn't take her eyes off him as he left Grimmauld Place as he intended: a free man. Hermione twisted to look out the window and catch him again, watching as he loitered under the only streetlamp in sight. With a blink, he was gone.

"Get some rest. Meeting at eight." Kingsley's voice boomed throughout the entire house, making Hermione jump and Luna startle awake from the couch across her. The girl's long, blonde hair stuck to her pillow and crackled with static as she sat up, blinking away sleep.

"What did he say?" Luna yawned.

"Meeting in the morning," Hermione answered, turning her attention back to her book. "Go back to sleep."

Luna nodded, already falling back and grabbing a blanket to pull over herself. "You should sleep too," she mumbled.

Hermione didn't sleep at all. She read on _reparifors_ until the words began to swim, and even after she closed her book, she wasn't remotely tired. She turned to the window again, hugging her knees closely, and stared at the yellowed streetlamp with such ferocity that she was sure the light would burst. But it never did.

She felt too weary to think. Now that Malfoy was gone (Merlin knew where to), everything seemed solidified. Malfoy was an Order member. He was an Order member because there was another war, and because, quite frankly, they had no idea where to start. She knew the look that Kingsley so often wore now; she'd seen it a countless amount of times on Harry's face. It was a mix of helplessness and uncertainty, a perfect picture of being at a loss of what to do next. Whenever Harry got that look, Hermione knew that the only thing to do was give him the tools to succeed, like when she researched for him during the Triwizard Tournament, and when she helped found Dumbledore's Army without him knowing.

Kingsley was no different. She hated to admit it, but Malfoy was their tool to succeed now. She never backed away from a solution before, and she wasn't going to start now, even if he was as untrustworthy as Ron said.

Ron. Hermione sighed, and rubbed away at the beginnings of what was sure to be an incessant migraine. Apologizing would do no good. Knowing him, he'd stew over her betrayal for days. The worst part of it was, she didn't feel guilty at all. Maybe for breaking his nose, but that was an accident. She couldn't help but think that she didn't deserve Ron at all. She didn't have enough fingers to count all the times she'd been rather horrible to him with no explanation, and no apology. And yet, she still got weak in the knees when he walked into a room, when he looked at her with unabashed admiration and loyalty.

It was selfish to hold him like this, she realized. Even now, she knew that he'd come to begrudgingly accept their need for Malfoy, and perhaps even praise her for seeing it so soon. She felt absolutely filthy in ignoring his feelings because she couldn't take one moment of possibly being _wrong_.

Maybe she was more like Malfoy than she thought. Selfish, prideful, and a downright prat when she wanted to be. She couldn't bring herself to come up with an apology for Ron at all, even if it would be a fruitless effort. She dropped her head to her knee, sincerely hoping that Ron would be unforgiving for once in his life and hold this over her head until the day she died. After all, it's something she would do to him.

Hermione suddenly felt warm, the shivers of sleeplessness dying away, and she looked up to see a tiny beam of sunlight peeking from behind the blinds. She groaned softly and lifted her wrist to check the dainty face of her watch. 6:56. She needed coffee.

Her muscles nearly refused to work as she got up and padded to the kitchen, exhaustion finally setting in at the absolute worst time. She was so tired now, that she didn't notice the light already on, and nearly jumped out of her skin at seeing Harry already sitting at the table, a plate of buttered toast in front of him.

"Merlin," she rasped out. "You scared me."

"Sorry," he said, a grin slowly spreading as he picked up his toast. "How did you sleep?"

If it wasn't for his raised eyebrow, and the fact that one had to walk by the living room to get to the kitchen, she would have lied. Hermione sighed, walking to lean against the counter. "I didn't," she admitted.

"I know. Something rather interesting out the window, then?"

She shook her head, staring into nothing. "I was just thinking."

"Me too." Harry leaned back into his chair, a hand coming up to grab at his side. "I don't think I'm ready for another war, Hermione."

She bit her lip, waiting in silence for him to continue.

"It's just…" He trailed off, shrugging his shoulders. "Rounding up Death Eaters, I could do. But this is just…I'm just tired."

Hermione made her way to the overhead cabinets. "Coffee might help?" she suggested, her voice filling with false pleasantry.

Harry chuckled, shaking his head. "Alright, put one on for me."

She slowly took out two mugs, considering her answer thoughtfully. She felt as he did; she still had demons that haunted her from the last war. The possibility of adding more was just as he said: tiring. She didn't want to admit it to him, but it was Harry. They told each other everything.

"I feel the same, Harry," she finally said quietly. "I didn't even want to go back to school, really. I just wanted to stay in Ginny's room. I mean…" She paused, tapping at the ceramic handle. "I still feel like there's nothing for me sometimes, after everything."

She heard Harry stand, and he shuffled across the room to stand by her. "You know that's not true, right?" he asked. "You have us."

She tried to ignore the petulant voice in the back of her head saying that if she didn't deserve Ron, she probably didn't deserve anyone else either. "I just want everything to be over again," she murmured. She breathed out a laugh, shaking her head. "I even miss grieving."

Harry took her hand tightly, looking at her over the rim of his glasses. "There's still time to grieve, Hermione."

She shook her head. "I won't find it."

"Not with that attitude. I don't want…" He pressed his lips together, sighing deeply. "You can still feel during war. Even grief. You just have to make time for it."

She twisted to face him fully, her eyebrow raising. "When did you get so wise?"

Harry smirked. "Comes with being the Chosen One, I guess."

"Oh, shut it," she grinned, waving him off to start their coffee. There was a patter of footsteps on the floor above them, and they both looked up.

"Better put one on for Ron too," Harry said. "I'm sure he'll be in a right foul mood when he comes down."

"He won't take it from me," she blurted, and Harry frowned at her.

"I'm 'fraternizing,' remember? I probably laced it with Death Eater poison."

"He's not going to throw away years of friendship over a cup of coffee, Hermione. You know how he is. I'm sure he'll be over it by tomorrow."

Hermione opened her mouth to argue, but decided against it, instead sighing and pulling down another mug.

By the time everyone was awake, she wished that she hadn't thought of making coffee at all. She had five mugs in various states of coffee production on the counter in front of her, and she was sure that her own – the only one she intended to make, besides _maybe_ Harry's – was cold by now. It wasn't until minutes before eight o'clock that Ron came down, squinting against the light and his hair cowlicked in different directions. Hermione gritted her teeth and set his coffee on the counter before him – just as he liked, with enough sugar to cause cancer.

Ron glared at the mug, refusing to look at her at all. "Sugar?" he grunted.

"Lots," she replied evenly.

Ron carefully took the mug and took the barest of sips, nodding once and turning away before she could even offer to heal his nose. Hermione huffed and went back to her station, only to come face to face with Ernie, who was leaning against the counter with a shit-eating grin.

"Merlin," she whined. "Not you too."

"Hey," Ernie said, straightening and lifting his hands. "It's not my fault big man said eight A.M."

"Is everyone here?" Kingsley came billowing into the room, his hands holding large stacks of parchment. He scanned the kitchen before finally setting on Hermione. "Could I have a cup as well?" he asked, a small smile gracing his features.

Hermione plastered a grin on her face. "Certainly," she mustered out, irritation at no one but herself blooming like a flower.

"Thank you." Kingsley placed all the parchment at the head of the table, everyone else grabbing chairs and settling in. "Now, I'm sure you're all aware of the conversation I had with Mr. Malfoy last night. I'll be briefing you all on it this morning, but it might take some time. I have to say that it was…" He paused, throwing up his eyebrows. "Quite enlightening."

"Is this…everything he said?" Ernie asked, gesturing toward the stacks of parchment suspiciously.

"Yes."

Ernie whistled, leaning back in his chair. "Guess I'll get comfortable then."

"I doubt much of it is useful," Ron muttered.

"Mr. Malfoy currently resides in the main headquarters of the Death Eater resurgence," Kingsley said tersely. "And I wrote down everything he said. I _know_ that all of it is useful."

Ron looked at the floor, the tips of his ears slowly turning red. Hermione quietly levitated the rest of the coffee mugs to everyone, afraid of breaking the silence. Harry rested his elbows against the table.

"Let's hear it then," he said.

The intelligence spanned everything that Hermione could think of, and then some. Kingsley explained organization efforts, possible Ministry laws that could be voted into effect, hideouts, battle strategies, and he named every member of the resurgence that held some level of agency. He told them that the Death Eater numbers were enormous. They included any members that were previously aligned with Voldemort during the first and second wars, along with any sympathizers that were either unhappy with Ministry efforts to reduce pureblood power, or were too afraid to work under Voldemort's scrutiny before. "Many are being controlled by the Imperius Curse as well," Kingsley said. "Or being threatened."

"Is there a way to tell who's unwilling?" Luna asked.

"If Mr. Malfoy knew a way, he didn't disclose it."

"I can't believe they have so many," Ginny said softly.

"It explains how they could perform multiple attacks at once," Harry said, his hand stroking at his chin. "I don't see any other way they could have taken most of magical England."

Soon, Hermione and Ginny were making lunch for everyone else. Kingsley refused to take a break. He told them about future plans, including a raid on Gringotts, and every rumor that traversed within the higher ranks of the Death Eaters. Finally, as everyone finished their meal, Kingsley finally sat down, for the first time looking exhausted.

"There's a caveat to all of this," he said.

When no one said anything, Hermione prodded him. "Which is?"

"We can't do anything yet."

Hermione counted two seconds before the room exploded. Ron stood roughly from his chair, insisting that the information _was_ useless if nothing could be done. Ernie and Harry shot out what-do-you-means and demands that they _could_ do something. Even Luna leaned forward, her wide eyes confused and searching for an explanation. Kingsley raised his hands silently, forcing them all to quiet down.

"No one knows of most of this information but the Death Eaters themselves," he explained. "If we advance, Mr. Malfoy's cover is blown."

"Who cares about Malfoy?!" Ron shouted. "He's a rat! Let them treat him like one!"

"How would they even know it was him?" Harry asked, frowning.

"I am not putting our only source of intelligence in danger, regardless if they could find out or not," Kingsley said sternly. "And he is not too keen on it either."

"He should have thought about that before coming here," Ron spat. "We're all in danger! Why does he get a pass?"

"He is an Order member, whether you like it or not, Mr. Weasley," Kingsley boomed. "He is the only reason we _have_ this information, and I would like to receive more. That is the only way we can stay ahead."

Ron scoffed, sitting back down and folding his arms across his chest. Hermione gnawed at her lip, and she saw the look again on Kingsley's face. Helplessness.

They had to do something. Hermione would find a way.

"Is there really nothing we can do?" she asked quietly, stepping forward.

Kingsley's shoulders slumped. "Even if we could, we need more Order members," he said quietly. "There are a few remaining Aurors and allies in other safehouses, but not enough to make a significant blow."

"There has to be a small enough station somewhere," Ernie said. "We're all skilled enough. It won't be tied to a rat if we 'accidentally' walk in on them."

But Kingsley wasn't listening. His dark eyes suddenly had a small glint, and he searched through his piles of parchment. He finally pulled out a small page, reading over it quickly before setting it down and frowning.

"There are prisoners in Malfoy Manor," he said thoughtfully. "People who fought against their raids."

Harry leaned forward, clearly catching on quickly. "That's where they kept prisoners before. It wouldn't be a stretch for us to go, and we'd have more members."

"Not all of them live there," Ernie said. "If we go at night, we could probably take them."

"Did he say who was there?" Ginny asked, her eyes aglow.

"He only recognized a few," Kingsley said lowly. "Neville Longbottom, Minerva McGonagall, and…" He trailed off, his eyes settling on Ron and Ginny. "Arthur Weasley."

Ginny let out a yelp, her hand coming to smack over her mouth. Ron stared at Kingsley, a dark grimace slowly forming in a way that Hermione had never seen before.

"Dad's there?" he asked quietly. His hands were shaking.

Kingsley only nodded.

Ginny stood, her face nearing the color of her hair. "We're going," she said, her finality being the only thing needed to convince everyone else.

"Aurors, come with me," Kingsley said, standing and gesturing to Ernie, Ron, and Harry. "I'll need help with plans." He started to stalk out of the kitchen, before turning and facing Hermione with grim determination. "Miss Granger, alert Mr. Malfoy that we require his presence."

Before Hermione could even open her mouth to object, he left, followed by his three Aurors.

* * *

Hermione paced in front of the door, waiting. It was now hours since she sent a patronus to Malfoy. Her mind raced with possibilities, mostly involving Death Eater infiltration of the Order and betrayal, of what could be holding him up. She bit at her nails, throwing the chips on the floor and essentially begging Ginny to yell at her later.

"He'll come, Hermione," Luna said dreamily from the living room, not even looking up from her new piles of assorted, abandoned belongings from the second floor.

"How can you know that?" Hermione asked, a little more harshly than she intended.

"Because I know." Luna looked up, calmly setting down a large parchment paper. "He's very determined about making sure things go well for him."

"Well," Hermione scoffed. "That could mean anything."

"He's also very certain that this is the only way."

Hermione narrowed her eyes. "Can you read his mind now, then?"

Luna smiled. "No. I just know."

The door opened then, nearly smacking Hermione in the face and revealing Malfoy, looking about the same as he left Grimmauld Place the night before. He recoiled slightly at seeing her so close to the entrance, his scowl slightly fading to surprise.

"Planning to ambush me, Granger?"

"Where were you?" she demanded.

He rolled his eyes and shut the door. "Piss off. Everything doesn't revolve around you."

"I beg to differ. You're a spy for the Order in the middle of a war."

"It's really more the beginning, don't you think?" He smirked at her glare, before dropping his shoulders in defeat, clearly not in the mood to play stubborn. "I had things to do."

"This should have gone to the top of your to-do list."

"I _do_ have a life outside of you, if your ego allows it."

"Again," Hermione huffed, throwing her hands up in exasperation. "Order spy. This _is_ your life."

"Well," he drawled, leaning to stare her down and plastering his stupid, superior grin on his face. "Good thing I'm leading two."

Hermione rolled her eyes, moving out of his way and gesturing up the stairs. "They're waiting for you."

Malfoy straightened, nodding once and heading upstairs, his long legs requiring him to take two at a time. Hermione watched him go, hoping he could feel the fire she intended to conjure at the top of his head.

"Funny," Luna giggled. Hermione turned around to see her wearing her ridiculous, much too large glasses. "You have less Wrackspurts when you're talking to him."

Hermione balked, folding her arms across her chest. "It's because I hate him," she said simply, and retreated into the kitchen to avoid Luna for the rest of the evening.

The rest of the evening turned to a late night. Hermione convinced herself to continue to read _The Introductory Healer's Handbook to Healing_ even though the light was starting to hurt her eyes; she was almost done with it anyway. She didn't want to think about what having less Wrackspurts around Malfoy entailed, which meant that she would just have to avoid seeing Luna until the next morning. She was just beginning to start the final chapter (subject: healing serious internal injuries) when Ginny walked in, rubbing at her eyes and yawning.

"Do you ever sleep, Hermione?" she asked, slumping into the chair next to her.

"I could ask the same of you," Hermione retorted, quickly checking her watch and realizing that it was a _very_ late night.

Ginny sighed. "They're still in Kingsley's office. I don't think Harry's coming to bed any time soon."

Hermione hummed, turning a page. She could feel Ginny warring with herself over something.

"You don't need Harry to sleep," she finally said after a moment of silence.

"No," Ginny admitted. "But he won't sleep unless I make sure he does."

Hermione bit her lip. She remembered Harry's bad habit of avoiding sleep during their search for Horcruxes.

"Is it nightmares again?"

Ginny shook her head. "No. He's just…anxious I guess." She paused, frowning at the moonlit houses out the window. "He thinks he has to play savior."

Hermione looked up, knowing all too well of Harry's physical need to satiate the hero complex others forced on him. "He said that?" she decided to say, trying to coax Ginny to talk.

Ginny shrugged. "I just know." She clenched her jaw and pushed a stray strand of hair behind her ear. "I'm worried about him," she said quietly.

Hermione could hear small drips of water clinking into the sink, and her watch clicking the seconds of the night away.

"He wants to go to the Manor," Ginny continued. "I get it, but I don't think he can. His side still hurts him."

Hermione closed her eyes. She could see the black spatter writhing against Harry's skin, exploding and sizzling on his stomach and fighting with all of its might to stay alive. It hadn't come back, but she saw the scar it left. It was like port wine birthmark permanently etched on his skin. She tried multiple remedies, all of them failing, until Harry insisted that it was just a scar, and that he had so many that one more wouldn't mean a thing.

"Kingsley won't let him," Hermione said, a glint of hope finding its way into her tone.

"That's the thing," Ginny said quickly. "If Harry's making plans, he might have to go."

Hermione sighed, knowing that she was right. They would need all the help they could get at the Manor. Harry was smart in battle, smarter than her; he could come up with spur of the moment plans like his life depended on it. Oftentimes, it did.

"I'll give him pain-relieving potion," Hermione said. "It helps him a lot. I'll keep it with me, and I'll stay close to him."

Ginny finally looked at her, her eyes flooded with worry. "Can I keep some too?"

Hermione smiled, and she reached over to grab Ginny's hand tightly. "Of course. He'll be okay, Ginny."

Ginny squeezed her hand back, returning a small smile. "Thank you."

Hermione went back to her reading, the tick of her watch slowly infiltrating her ears again.

"Maybe I should kiss it to make it better," Ginny interrupted, a laugh threatening to spill out of her.

Hermione giggled. "I'm sure Harry would _love_ that."

" _I_ think he would," Ginny said, a suggestive smirk sliding over her lips. "He always tells me—"

"Stop!" Hermione laughed, leaning forward in an attempt to cover Ginny's mouth. "I do _not_ want to hear whatever you were about to say."

Ginny shifted, playfully hitting Hermione's hands away. "You're such a prude! I'll remember this when you want to gossip about your own escapades."

Hermione raised her eyebrow, smiling dangerously. "You know, when I kissed Ron—"

"Oh-kay!" Ginny cackled, standing up and waving her hands. "I get it now! Merlin, that's my _brother_!"

"But I thought you wanted to know!" Hermione teased, feigning ignorance.

"Absolutely not!"

Hermione could help herself. She started laughing, doubling over and gripping her sides. Ginny joined in, her hands holding onto the chair for support. They started guffawing so loudly that they didn't notice the office door open and close, and two sets of footsteps come trudging downstairs.

"I _have_ to know what you two are laughing about," Harry chuckled, appearing behind Ginny with a grin. He wrapped his arm around her, pulling her close.

"Nothing you need to know," Ginny answered, her hand wiping under her eye. "How did it go?"

"It's a good plan." He gestured behind him with his thumb. "Malfoy is—"

The front door slammed, and Harry whirled to stare into the hallway. "Malfoy is gone," he said.

"Good riddance," Hermione muttered.

Harry frowned. "You were goody-goody with him a day ago."

"Hardly. I don't have to _like_ him."

"We'll figure out in the morning what Malfoy is doing," Ginny said, another yawn taking over. "It's bedtime, Harry."

Harry rolled his eyes and kissed her on the cheek. "Okay, Mum."

"Don't," Ginny said sternly, and she took his hand and started to lead him out of the kitchen. "If you don't get enough sleep, then…"

Hermione waved after Harry, who mouthed a silent goodnight before disappearing into the darkness.

* * *

Everyone was taking naps the day they would infiltrate Malfoy Manor. Everyone except Hermione. The plan was solid, but that didn't stop her stomach from churning as anxiety seemed to close in on her like a shrinking box. Ernie took her to the back porch to duel hours before they were due to leave.

"If you're not going to sleep, you can at least practice with me," he said. After she disarmed him about seven times, he raised his arms in surrender.

"You'd be a good Auror," he conceded. Before he left, he leaned against the doorway and fixed her with a knowing stare. "Just don't get in your head."

She packed her healing supplies four times. She quizzed herself on spells while staring at the kitchen table. And when Malfoy sauntered into the house, she didn't feel nearly ready at all.

"The wards are down, but you can't apparate in," he told them. "You'll have to pair up on brooms."

He smirked at her, and she decided that he knew full well how much she hated flying.

Ron's broom hovered in between them, and her hand twitched nervously at her side. Ron was sifting through his own bag containing every key imaginable for the Manor dungeons. She watched as he furrowed his brow, counting silently to himself to make sure he hadn't forgotten any.

"Ron, I can…"

He looked up at her, and she melted. She could count the freckles on his nose, could see the thin circle of green that reminded her of summer leaves in his eyes.

"I can heal your nose," she said quietly, suddenly uncertain.

His eyes glanced for a second at her lips. He nodded.

Hermione reached for his chin gently, steadying his face before her and placing her wand at the crooked bridge of his nose. Her heart stuttered to a stop.

"It'll hurt," she whispered.

"It's okay," he said, his deep voice rumbling through her.

His nose was straight again with a small pop, and he squeezed his eyes shut before blinking rapidly, like it would help the pain go away. He reached to rub a finger along the bone, and his hand held her own for a second too long as he brought it away from his chin.

"Thanks."

"Of course."

He turned his attention back to his bag and scoffed. "I think I forgot a key. One second."

She watched him go back to the house, only for Malfoy to step into her view. He tilted his head, considering her.

"Better kiss Weaslebee now," he taunted. "You won't be able to any time soon."

She scowled at him. He grinned callously, a single brow lifting in challenge, and then he apparated away.

* * *

Hermione squeezed her eyes shut tightly and pressed her face into Ron's back, her stomach churning at every miniscule drop in altitude. At a particularly sharp turn, she gasped and pulled herself closer to him. Her arms could barely wrap around his entire frame, her legs had no traction on the tiny stick of wood, and she was certain she'd fall to her death sometime soon. Ron put one his hands on her own, his palm large and grounding.

"It's alright, Hermione," he yelled over the wind. "We're almost there."

She laced her fingers between his, holding for dear life. "I hate flying," she mumbled into his shirt, crushing herself against him as he started to descend.

They glided through the expansive forest surrounding Malfoy Manor, twisting around the trees that covered them from any lookouts. Malfoy informed them that there would be seven Death Eaters in the Manor that night, including Rodolphus Lestrange and Antonin Dolohov, two of the more prominent leaders of the resurgence. If things went well, they'd never even see them.

One by one, the four brooms landed gracefully, and Hermione sighed with relief at feeling solid ground under her feet again. They stashed the brooms under a nearby tree, covering them with brush, and squatted low to examine the gargantuan house.

It was completely dark, an ominous and towering structure that made the sky behind it a mere midnight blue. Hermione narrowed her eyes, catching the elegant wraparound porch along the first story that would act as their entry point. Malfoy had left one window at the back of the Manor open and unwarded, awaiting their arrival. When asked if there would be any suspicion involving him, he merely rolled his eyes, muttering something about incapable Death Eater idiots and their inability to even close a window, let alone lock one.

Hermione saw the barest of movement at the backend of the porch and shifted to her right to see a guard patrolling, meandering along the corner that they were supposed to climb. She tapped Ron on the shoulder, pointing.

"We'll have to get him," she whispered, and Ron nodded.

"Disillusionment Charm?" he whispered back.

"I'll cast it."

Harry crawled over to them, gripping his wand tightly. "Remember, as soon as we unshackle them, we send them out," he said lowly. "Malfoy said he'd make sure that they were well enough to Portkey, but I doubt all of them are in good shape."

Hermione watched as Ernie, Luna, Ginny, and Kingsley took stations along the border of trees. "All of you have the Portkeys ready?" Kingsley asked, and the other three nodded. He looked at them then, the Golden Trio, grim determination clearly setting on his face even in the darkness.

"Whenever you're ready," he whispered to them.

"We'll be behind you if something happens," Ernie called.

Hermione could feel her wand setting deep imprints into the palm of her hand. She took a deep breath, wiping her free hand against her jeans and steeling herself to break in. She glanced at Harry, noticing a sheen of sweat along his forehead in the moonlight.

"Alright, Harry?"

He set his jaw, staring ahead at the Manor. "Alright. It's just dull."

"Do you want another—"

"No," he said sternly. He looked at her, his green eyes glowing. "We have to go."

Hermione bit her lip. "Okay."

She raised her wand, ignoring its slight shake as she cast the Disillusionment Charm over the three of them. Ron dashed out of the bushes toward the backend of the porch, and Hermione and Harry followed quickly behind him, keeping their heads low and wands at their sides. When they got in place, Hermione could see the open window, the curtains slightly blowing through with the breeze. They ducked underneath the porch, their backs pressed against the stone foundation as the guard strolled over them.

Hermione examined the stone around them; it was too flat and flush against itself to climb. Tapping Harry, she crouched low to the ground and folded her hands together, and he quickly followed.

"Go up, Ron," she whispered hurriedly. "You're tall enough."

She gritted her teeth as Ron stepped into their outstretched palms, struggling to stand up enough so he could reach.

"Just a bit further," he grunted.

She felt her hands beginning to sweat. She could hear the guard coming back around. If they were caught like this, they were goners.

Finally, she felt Ron's weight lessen, and she snapped her gaze upwards to catch his legs swinging over the edge of the porch. She heard a thud as he landed above them, and the guard's footsteps quickened around the corner.

" _Stupefy_."

Hermione held her breath. There was a slight shuffling above, and Ron peeked his head over, the Disillusionment Charm already fading away.

"He's down. Come up."

Harry kneeled beside her. "Get on my shoulders. Ron can pull you up."

Hermione hesitated. He was breathing heavily, now dripping with sweat. She itched to grab a pain-relieving potion and force it down his throat. She opened her mouth to insist, only to falter at the glare he shot at her. It was his "I'm not going to argue with you about this" look, reminding her of all the times he'd been so determined to ignore his own needs in all the years she'd known him. She huffed and climbed on top of him.

Harry was not a stable pedestal. Hermione knew she wasn't particularly heavy, and yet he staggered underneath her weight, his balance nearly throwing both of them crashing to the ground. Ron strained over the railing above her, nearly on the verge of falling himself as he brushed her fingertips.

"Push yourself off," Harry strangled out, and she tried the best she could to jump with her thighs. She could feel Harry pushing her off him, and she suddenly felt heavier than before as she lifted into the air. Hermione was almost certain she'd fall. She squeezed her eyes shut, awaiting the impact, but instead felt Ron's strong hands wrap around her forearms. She instinctively grabbed him back for what felt like dear life.

Ron quickly pulled her up to the rail and let her grab onto the edge, and she lifted her ankle and rolled herself over the other side of the porch. She yelped at seeing the blackened wood rocketing towards her face, only for Ron to catch her shoulders before she smacked into the floor. He helped her up, and then leaned over the railing again to look down at Harry.

"Jump up," he called down. "We'll catch you."

She looked over the edge herself, only to see Harry grimacing in the moonlight, nearly doubled over and holding his stomach. "I…I don't think I can," he gasped, his eyebrows furrowing. Hermione inhaled sharply and glanced around them before pointing her wand at him, a small spark of light shooting out and lifting Harry from the ground like a feather. She stepped away from the railing to allow him to gently let down next to them.

" _Wingardium leviosa_ ," Ron muttered, slapping at his forehead. "Why the bloody hell didn't we do that earlier?"

"I'm sure that guard would love to see Harry Potter floating onto the back porch of Malfoy Manor," she said snidely. She looked down at the crumpled heap of black robes, her foot kicking at it lightly. "Come on," she whispered. "He'll be up soon, and we don't want to be here for that."

They crossed the porch and crawled into the Manor one by one through the open window. Ron went first, calling a quiet all clear, and Hermione helped push Harry through, unabashedly touching his side to check his scar. When she finally climbed through, she took a shuddering breath and examined the room, her wand flicking to cast a _muffilato_ around the three of them.

Her blood instantly ran ice cold. The first thing she noticed was the chandelier. It was different, slightly less ornate and gigantic, but it was in the same spot. Hermione stood rooted to the floor; she couldn't take her eyes off it. She could hear the screws squeaking in deep protest to being loosened, could feel Bellatrix's blade burning into her neck. Her lip began to tremble; she didn't dare look anywhere else, afraid that there would be a dark stain of her blood on the black panels of flooring – a trophy that remained, never to be mopped up. Her scar suddenly itched, and she fought against the urge to maim herself, if only to never see the mark ever again.

Mudblood. A permanent etching on her skin, on her face, on her identity. She refused to think about it since the resurgence, refused to think of needing to send her parents away because she ended up different. A shiver went through her and she flinched; she felt Bellatrix circling her like a shark to a cage, her wild hair and stinking breath suddenly invading her. Hermione squeezed her eyes shut, shaking her head.

"Hermione?"

She felt steady hands on her shoulders, nothing like the spindly, claw-like grip of the woman she was most glad was dead. She opened her eyes, seeing nothing but Ron's deep blue, like the Atlantic during a storm in the dark. Her breath stuttered, and she blinked once, forcing the fire that threatened to burn her away like it was merely notes she could study for a test.

"Alright?"

She gritted her teeth. "Yes. Let's go."

The corners of his lips lifted in a ghost of a smile that was neither comforting or reassuring at all, and he turned away, stalking across the parlor toward the staircase. "This way, right Harry?"

Harry hummed, now completely clutching at his torso and limping to follow. "Yeah, it's—"

He collapsed to his knees, his wand clattering against the floor. Hermione raced to his side, her hands already finding a vial of potion. "Is it your side?" she asked hurriedly, bringing the vial to his lips and tipping his head back, forcing him to drink.

He immediately spit it out. "It hurts to drink," he gasped out, his face contorting. "It's l-like…my entire chest is on fire," he panted.

Hermione looked up at Ron, entirely at a loss of what to do. Receiving nothing from Ron but helplessness, she took Harry's arm and put it around her shoulders, forcing him to stand with her and stagger towards the door at the bottom of the staircase. Ron sifted through his bag before procuring a key and unlocked the door to reveal a black void and a cool gust of air.

" _Lumos_ ," he whispered. The light barely shone enough for them to see the first step. The stone walls dripped, tiny clinks of water splattering in front of them. Ron hesitantly stepped forward, and the sound echoed around the corridor.

"We're almost done, Harry," she whispered, and she followed Ron down the stairs.

She counted twenty steps. There was a thrum of magic around them, beating in her ears and leaving a metallic taste in her mouth; the kind that only dark magic made. When they finally found solid footing, Ron poured more energy into his light, illuminating dark iron bars and one large cell.

"Ron?"

Hermione narrowed her eyes, struggling to see in the blackness. There was a rattling of chains, and she nearly jumped out of her skin at seeing Neville appear at the bars. As Ron got closer, her mouth dropped open in horror.

There were nearly twenty of them, all dirty and ragged and chained to the walls like animals at the zoo. She didn't even recognize most of them. Neville was the best of them all, with only a swollen eye and a deep gash down the side of his face; he looked sallow and thin, his clothes hanging off of him like he was only bone. She saw Professor McGonagall clutching at her side, her normally severe and pristine hair flowing raggedly over her shoulders. She squinted closer, and gasped when she finally recognized the dirty blonde plaits of Hannah Abbott, her face unrecognizable from the number of bruises littering her skin. Michael Corner and Padma huddled together in the corner, hiding away from Ron's light.

"Shit," Ron muttered, his voice reverberating through the entire dungeon.

"What are you doing here?" Neville asked, unable to mask his shock.

Ron grabbed another key and struggled to open the cell block. "Busting you out of here."

Hermione could only stand by and watch as Ron went through and freed every single one of them with the keys Malfoy gave them, her knees shaking under Harry's weight. She could feel him growing fainter, could feel herself struggling to carry him as he slowly relied on her more. After Ron released the first five, he stopped.

"Go up the stairs and left. There's a back window that we left open in the parlor. Crawl out and get to the border of the forest as quickly as you can. They'll Portkey you to Shell Cottage."

Neville nodded, supporting Professor McGonagall and standing close to Hannah. "I'll wait outside. Make sure everyone knows where they're going."

The prisoners stumbled up the steps, leading each other through the darkness. Hermione fidgeted, watching anxiously as Ron filtered through the rest of them as quickly as he could.

"We have to hurry, Ron. That guard—"

"I know."

He suddenly stopped and crouched to the floor, shaking a dark mass laying motionless on the floor. "Dad?" he asked quietly. She inhaled sharply, her panic shooting and trembling her. Arthur groaned, curling into himself to avoid Ron's touch.

"Fuck," Ron hissed, and he pushed himself off the floor to release the rest of the prisoners with fervor. Before Michael Corner led them out, he grabbed his forearm.

"Tell Ginny to just go. I'll bring Dad after we get out of here."

As the final round of people exited, Ron unshackled his father and lifted him off the ground, lumbering out of the cell and prompting her to follow.

"We took too long."

"It's okay."

"I should have stupefied him again—"

"We'll think about it after. Just go. Fast."

They advanced out of the dungeon as quickly as they could, their baggage both dragging their feet over every step. Hermione could feel sweat dripping down her forehead and dribbling over her chin as she carried Harry, her feet lifting like they were lead.

"Hermione," he groaned faintly.

"We're almost there, Harry. Hang on." As the thrum of dark magic lessened, leaving behind only a pounding headache, Hermione felt her heart rapidly beat. They were going to make it. Just a few more steps, and they'd make it. She nearly sang with relief at seeing the shiny, polished wood of the first floor, the blueish glow of the moon sifting through the tall, rounded windows.

She ran into Ron's back, nearly making her and Harry fall to the floor. "Ron, I said _go_ —"

Hermione looked up, and her heart stopped.

They were surrounded. She couldn't breathe. Her eyes darted past every black-clad figure, their wands raised in near attack. She didn't want to count them, but she'd always done it, since she was a child. She got it from her father, who would count ceiling tiles and kitchen plates and flowers in the garden religiously, a habit he couldn't break. She couldn't either.

Six. There were six circled around them. She couldn't close her mouth. The perfect plan failed.

"Well, well," one of them rasped, his voice like waves pulling out of a beach and dragging across sand. He stalked toward them, lowering his wand and smiling cruelly, his pointed teeth glinting in success.

Dolohov.

He gestured toward Ron lazily. "This the one that knocked you?"

"Yes, sir," a stiff voice answered. She couldn't pinpoint where in the ranks it came from, or even if she recognized the voice. Hermione let out a ragged breath, closing her eyes for a second like everything was just a bad dream, and she'd wake up soon. She was crestfallen when she opened her eyes again.

It wasn't.

Dolohov tilted his head at them like a curious dog, an eyebrow lifting as if someone had told him a marginally funny story. "I've got to say, I can't believe my luck," he said. "The three people I've been wanting to see." He stepped closer, peering at them with sharp eyes. "A blood traitor," he continued, his gaze lingering over Ron. "A murderer." Looking at Harry, barely standing next to her.

His eyes narrowed at her like he could cut with them. "And the Mudblood bitch who Obliviated me," he spat.

She felt Ron shift, fishing for his wand in the back pocket of his jeans and pointing it at Dolohov.

"Ah, ah, ah," Dolohov chided, wagging his finger. "I think you'll change your mind."

He jerked his head, and Roldophus Lestrange stepped out of the shadows. He clutched Ginny in front of him, a knife to her throat. Hermione gasped, and she felt Ron stiffen next to her as Ginny struggled against Roldophus, her whimpers filling the room from floor to ceiling.

"Gin," Ron breathed out, his arm lowering slightly.

"Drop the wand," Dolohov sneered.

At Ron's hesitation, Roldophus pressed the blade deeper into Ginny's skin. A small, dark line appeared under it, and Ginny cried out, her eyes wide and tears streaming down her face.

Ron immediately let go of his wand, and it clattered to the ground in front of them, away from reach.

Dolohov chuckled. "I knew you'd see reason."

He slowly walked across the parlor and began to circle them. Hermione staggered closer to Ron, huddling into his side as Dolohov's radius shrunk.

"I've got big plans for you," he whispered. "I'll kill her first." He pointed at Ginny. "And I'll make you watch. Then, I'll set the dogs on the Mudblood."

Hermione squeezed her eyes shut, her chest stuttering. "Those dogs are starving, you know," he said lowly. She felt him close in on her, his body barely grazing her own. "They'll tear your insides open while you're still alive."

She pressed her lips together, a single tear falling down her cheek. "Then," he continued. "I'll torture the blood traitor until he has nothing better to do but piss and drool over himself."

She heard his footsteps return to the center of the parlor, away from them. "I think I'll leave the _famous_ Harry Potter in the dungeon," he finished. "Knowing the curse I shot at him, I'm surprised he hasn't died an agonizing death already."

The black spatter resurfaced in her mind, and her thoughts raced. That _thing_ had been alive; that much she knew. Even in facing Dolohov's anything but empty threats, she thought that Harry's proximity to the caster made him like this. She felt a stab of guilt go through her stomach; they'd brought Harry straight to the source.

"Nice catch, Dolohov."

Hermione's head snapped up, and she ripped open her eyes to see Malfoy leaning against the stone fireplace. She refused to let herself reveal him, but she couldn't help the sudden sharp breath of relief at hearing his voice. With Malfoy, maybe they could get out of this.

Dolohov twisted, suddenly looking pale. His mouth opened and closed in surprise, and his grip tightened on his wand.

"Evening, Malfoy," he finally said, a slight spark of uncertainty finding its way through his coarse voice.

Malfoy gazed at him, entirely impassive. "You think you can control the treatment of prisoners in my house?"

Hermione felt the room shift. She couldn't take her eyes off Malfoy, but somehow she knew that the rest of the Death Eaters had lowered their wands slightly. With slow horror, she realized that Malfoy was now in charge, and he wasn't going to save them at all.

Ron was right. It was a lie. She'd fallen for everything, and now she was going to die at the hands of Draco Malfoy.

"It's not your house," Dolohov said, grasping for even footing. "Your father isn't dead yet."

Malfoy pushed himself off the fireplace, slowly advancing toward Dolohov. A familiar chill settled into Hermione's bones. If it got any colder, she knew she'd see her uneven breath in front of her like white fog.

"He might as well be," he said darkly, and Hermione flinched at the utter lack of care in his voice. "What was it you said? He has nothing better to do but piss and drool over himself."

Dolohov's eyes darted over Malfoy's face. His face suddenly split into a nervous grin, and he shrugged his shoulders. "I should have known that poor little Draco didn't have the stomach to put blood traitors in their proper place."

It was the wrong thing to say. Malfoy's eyes only narrowed slightly, but she could feel the atmosphere shift toward imminent danger. He was so close to Dolohov now that he clearly towered over him. The room was suddenly darker, and the shadows seemed pulled towards the two of them.

"I have the stomach," Malfoy said frostily. "I just think their proper place is dead."

Dolohov's face morphed, realizing that he would be dead too if he argued further. He stepped back and hesitantly gestured toward them. "Have it your way then."

Malfoy was still for a moment, entirely controlling the rest of the short amount of time she had. When his hand dipped into his pocket and brought out his wand, and he faced them for the first time since he arrived, it dawned on her that everything would end here. The war would be over, and they would have accomplished nothing.

Fear made her lock into a staring contest with him. She saw nothing but his piercing betrayal.

"Malfoy," she strangled out, desperate.

"Sod off it, Mudblood," he hissed. "I've been waiting for this for a long time."

If she hadn't been frozen to the ground, unable to look away, she wouldn't have seen the barest twitch of his left eye. She felt woozy, her mind only able to come up with one incoherent thought like she'd just been struck by lightning.

It was a wink.

"Hermione," Harry mumbled, his voice garbled. "What's that noise?"

Ringing. It was low at first, but it slowly began to hurt her ears, the frequency high and warbling. With a flick of Malfoy's wand, all seven Death Eaters collapsed to the ground.

Her mouth dropped open. Malfoy dropped his wand arm to his side, looking around the room at the unconscious Death Eaters.

"W-what…what did you do?" Ginny choked out. Both her hands surrounded her neck protectively.

"They're out, but not for long," Malfoy said. He fixed Hermione sternly. "You need to go. Now."

A door opened on the floor above them, and there was a pointed stab that could only be a cane that pounded through the floor. "Draco?" a confused voice shot out, still finding cruelty amidst the bleariness of sleep. Malfoy twisted to look towards the stairs.

"My father's awake," he said quietly, and he quickly crossed the parlor to grab Ron's wand from the floor and offer it to him. "You _really_ need to go."

Ron stared at his wand with surprise, clearly still reeling from everything. He slow took it, swallowing and nodding without looking at Malfoy.

"Hermione," Ginny said worriedly. "Is Harry—"

"Take Dad," Ron interrupted. He pulled Arthur along to meet Ginny. "Portkey to Shell Cottage."

Ginny's face contorted. "I'm not leaving Harry—"

" _Please_ don't argue with me," Ron said fervently. "Stick to the plan. Tell Kingsley what happened."

Ginny's lip trembled, and she looked at Hermione, hoping for support. Hermione only held Harry closer to her.

"Go, Ginny," she said. "I'll take care of him. He'll be okay."

Anger flashed over Ginny's face, but she reached for her father, fishing in her pocket for the Portkey. She stared at the small coin in her hand as she struggled under Arthur's weight. "Be safe," she said quietly. " _Portus_."

"We'll take the brooms back, Hermione," Ron said stiffly, taking Harry from her. He stalked toward the front door impatiently. She quickly followed after him.

"Granger."

She twisted, facing Malfoy again. He stood in the middle of the parlor, circled by the fallen Death Eaters.

"Stupefy me," he said, his face grim. There was a clack on the top of the stairs, Lucius Malfoy's cane attempting to descend.

Her brows furrowed. "What?"

He huffed, throwing his eyes to the ceiling. "For once in your life, don't ask a question and just do what I say."

Hermione bit her lip, and quickly pulled her wand from her back pocket and aimed at him. She felt her resolve harden at another stab from Lucius' cane.

" _Stupefy_."

Malfoy crumpled to the ground, and Hermione raced out the door without a second glance back.

* * *

Harry was screaming with agony as they pulled him into Grimmauld Place, writhing against them and refusing to go. Ron grabbed under his arms and dragged him into the kitchen, lifting him onto the table and holding him down.

"What the fuck is wrong with him?!" Ron shouted.

"I don't know!" Hermione yelled. She was tired and panicked, her mind sifting quickly through any diagnostic spells she knew off the top of her head. She brought her wand down with a slice, tearing through Harry's shirt and pulling it back. She searched his chest frantically, but there was nothing. The dark red scar was still there on his side, but not even a speck of black that threatened to peek through the center.

"Hold him down, Ron," she ordered. "I have to see—"

"I'm…trying," he grunted. He shifted around the table, slamming one arm under Harry's neck and reaching to hold down his legs with the other. Hermione lifted her wand, shakily moving through the diagnostic spell for serious internal injuries over Harry's chest.

A circle of blue-green light filtered from the tip of her wand, allowing her to see inside of Harry like an x-ray. She leaned closer, squinting at the circle. She didn't understand what she was seeing. There was nothing there. Just a large, black mass throughout the entirety of his torso—

Hermione shrieked, dropping her wand and backing away from the table. Ron's head snapped up, his teeth clenching as he watched her hands come over her mouth, her eyes scanning wildly over Harry's entire body.

She saw it move. The mass. She saw it inch toward Harry's neck, the tendrils latching onto the top of his ribcage and pulling itself upwards. It was darkest at his side, just beneath the wretched scar.

"Put him out," she said coldly.

"What—"

"Put him out!"

Ron shook his head, confusion etched on his face, and Hermione raced forward, grabbing her wand from the floor and shooting a wordless _stupefy_ at Harry. He immediately ceased to move, his cries dying out as he lay splayed over the table. Ron slowly stood, his eyes never leaving her.

"What did you see?"

Hermione didn't look up from Harry. Her breath began to quicken, fear filling her stomach with lead. "It's—" she cut herself off, shaking her head fervently. "It's _inside_ him."

Ron's shoulders lowered. His chest heaved. " _What_ is?"

But she knew he already knew. Ron was never very good at masking anything, and even she, inept as she was at reading people, could tell. She slowly looked up at him, her eyes wide.

"That _thing_ ," she whispered. "Dolohov's curse."

"What do we do?" he asked urgently.

It had taken them hours to get back to Grimmauld Place. Riding on the brooms already made for a long trip to Malfoy Manor and back, but Harry was constantly threatening to fall to the ground below, making them both struggle to contain him and making Ron fly at the slowest speed he could muster. The sun was starting to trickle in through the bay window, lighting the kitchen in a subtle, orange glow, one that Hermione would have loved to sit and admire under different circumstances.

Hermione didn't know anything about dark magic. She fervently avoided it, making her usual course of action – a plan – impossible. Even now, she could spell metal leaking around them, the very same that made the dungeon of Malfoy Manor reek. The very same that tainted the parlor after Malfoy rendered the seven Death Eaters unconscious at once.

She knew he'd be awake by now. She knew Dolohov and Rodolphus would be awake by now, questioning him on just how exactly they had gotten away with nearly twenty prisoners, how they had even broken into Malfoy Manor. She knew that Malfoy could lie as well as he could breathe, and she knew for a _fact_ that Malfoy knew dark magic.

"I have to call Malfoy," she said quietly.

Ron balked, his eyebrows furrowing. "What? No. He can't come here until this has all blown over. There will be questions—"

"There's no one else," she snapped. "I don't know what to do. I've never _seen_ this before, and you haven't either." She threw her arms up exasperatedly. "He's the only person that could come _close_ to saving Harry."

Ron stared at her, frozen. "Save him?" he asked hoarsely.

Hermione crossed her arms over her chest, hugging herself. "I'm afraid…"

It hung over them like a shadow. She could feel it there, lingering, a vulture circling over the kitchen as it sought prey. Harry moaned in his sleep, his chest twitching with every breath.

"Call him," Ron said, and Hermione immediately poured her energy into a patronus. Her otter didn't waver or hesitate, scampering into the hallway and through the front door, leaving a trail of blue smoke behind it.

* * *

Harry kept waking up, no matter how many times they stupefied him. He'd gasp for air, and his screams shook the entire house. After a while, Hermione moved to placing vials of sleeping draught at his lips, nearly choking him as he refused to swallow. The black mass didn't grow, but it got darker, so much so that some areas were merely a grey against others. As it neared evening, the sleeping draught stopped working. Ron resorted to standing at Harry's shoulders, muttering quiet apologies over and over as he held him down.

Hermione was horrified. His skin was turning a sickly red, like a sudden rash blooming all over his chest. When the light caught him, Harry's torso looked like it was melting away. There was nothing she could do to stop anything.

She sprinted to the door when she heard a loud, continuous knocking. It had taken all day for him to come. The sun was beginning to set. Hermione's heart refused to slow, taken by the thought that it was too late.

When she unlocked and opened the door, Malfoy immediately advanced, the fury plain on his face.

"Do you have any _idea_ how much _shit_ I'm in because of you—"

He choked on his words when she grabbed his arm, pulling him into the hallway.

"Get _off_ me—!"

"Do something," she ordered, her voice shaking as she pushed him into the kitchen.

Malfoy's face immediately went slack. He stood frozen at the entrance of the kitchen, for once in all the time she'd known him at a loss for words. Harry was fighting against Ron, who was now using his entire weight to hold Harry's shoulders and arms down. Harry was trying to claw away at his skin, kicking his feet in an attempt to throw Ron off of him. They had to cast a _muffilato_ over him; his roars were nearly inhuman.

"What happened?" Malfoy breathed out.

"Dolohov cursed him a month ago," Hermione trembled. "It—it was this black _thing_ , it splattered against his side. It was like it was eating him alive."

Malfoy sniffed, stiffening. She waited for recognition, concern, _anything_ to cross his face, but there was nothing. "I didn't know what to do, _we_ didn't know what to do—"

"Where is it?" Malfoy suddenly asked.

Hermione looked at him. "It's inside him."

Malfoy tore his gaze from Harry. " _What_?"

"I don't know!" She covered her face in her hands. "I reduced it, and it was gone, but now it's here and I don't know!" She whipped her face up to look at him again. She felt herself losing control, her chest hyperventilating. " _Please_ ," she begged, stepping closer. "I know you hate him, but he can't—"

"Hermione, he's saying your name," Ron shot out, now kneeling behind Harry. She immediately left Malfoy to rush to the table, waving away the _muffilato_ and placing her hands on his face.

"Hermione," he gasped out, squinting his eyes shut.

"I'm here, Harry," she cooed, petting back his wild hair. "Malfoy's here too," she blurted. "It'll be okay, I promise—"

"Hermione," he said sternly. His hand came up to cover her own. She saw that she was gripping Ron's hand tightly above his head. His entire body jerked underneath her, rattling the table loudly.

"You're…you're my best friend," he rasped.

Hermione stilled, her eyes widening. "N-no, Harry, I know—"

"You c-can't close off," Harry continued, ignoring her. "Don't let them get to you."

"Stop it, Harry," she pleaded. Her eyes were beginning to burn, and she grabbed at his face tightly. "I won't, 'cause you'll be here, and everything will be okay—"

"I can't do this," he said, his strength suddenly present. "It hurts and I can't take it—"

"That's why Malfoy is here!" Hermione's voice broke as she raised it, willing him to listen. "He knows what to do, and it'll go away—"

"I'm tired," he said hoarsely. "Just…" He opened his eyes, green as spearmint, green as leaves, greener than anything she'd ever seen. "Tell Ginny I love her."

"No no no no," Hermione said frantically. "You can tell her yourself."

"Hermione—" Ron said quietly. She looked up, could see tears streaming down his face.

"No!" she shouted. She ripped herself away from Harry, turning to Malfoy and jabbing him in the chest. "Fix him, now!" she shouted. Everything was blurry, she could barely see him.

"I can't," he said softly, and she understood. She could hear it. Pity. She didn't want it. She didn't need it.

"Yes you _can_!" she yelled. "You know what this is! Y-you won't get this from me!"

"Granger—"

" _Do something_!" she screeched, magic cracking around her. She lunged at him and pounded on his chest with her fists. She felt his hands grab her wrists, forcing her to stop, and she fought against him, trying to tear away from his grip.

"He's dying," he said, something gentle in his voice. She squeezed her eyes shut, refusing to look at him, feeling hot tears press on her face. "I—" he paused. She felt his chest rise and fall. "It'll be quick."

Her head snapped up, her heart stuttering to a stop. She wrenched herself away from him, blood rushing to her ears. " _No_ ," she whispered harshly. "You will _never_ —"

"He's in pain, Hermione," Ron said quietly behind her.

She whirled, her face contorting against her will. "You're _not_ —"

"Do you want to watch him blow up from the inside out?!" Malfoy shouted, gesturing wildly towards the table.

"He won't!" she screeched. "You can do something!"

Malfoy reached out and pushed her out of the way, his wand coming up to point at Harry.

"NO!"

Hermione jumped in front of the table, her chest heaving. Suddenly, she felt strong arms pulling her away from behind, and she screamed, throwing her shoulder blades against Ron's chest and thrashing her legs into the air. "Ron, no, _please_ —!"

"I'm _sorry_ ," he whispered in her ear. There were tears splattering on the back of her neck.

She froze, snapping her head up to look at Malfoy. He was pale, his hand shaking as he pointed at the table. Everything seemed to slow as she turned to Harry, still jerking violently against the table. He looked at her, his face calm.

" _Avada kedavra_."

She opened her mouth, but there was no sound. She elbowed Ron in the stomach, flying to the table. His eyes were already closed.

She slowly put her hands on his shoulders. She shook him. Her ears were ringing. She could barely hear wailing, couldn't see anything. She grabbed his face, willing him to look at her, to breathe. His torso stopped melting away.

"Hermione," Ron sobbed. She heard him step towards her.

"Go away," she warbled, unable to stop her voice from shaking.

"Hermione, I—"

"GO AWAY!" she shrieked, whirling to face him. One of the kitchen lights burst. Ron recoiled, a whimper escaping him.

Hermione turned back to Harry, sinking to the floor and placing her face into the crook of his neck. Her lungs struggled for air, gasping in heaves. She felt Ron come up behind her, hugging them both closely, his own sobs matching her own. She didn't even hear Malfoy leave.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hermione, Ron, Harry, and Ginny are nearly captured in the rescue attempt at Malfoy Manor. Malfoy saves them through the use of dark magic. The proximity to Dolohov made Harry's curse resurface, and when Hermione and Ron get back to Grimmauld Place, they realize the black mass is inside of him. Hermione calls Malfoy in desperation, and both he and Ron realize they can't do anything. Malfoy mercy kills Harry.


	5. Chapter 5

* * *

5

_"The world is full enough of hurts and mischances without wars to multiply them."_

_J.R.R. Tolkien_

* * *

It was nearly December when Kingsley came back to Grimmauld Place, with Ernie and Luna in tow. Professor McGonagall, Neville, Hannah Abbott, Michael Corner, and Padma all traveled to a safe house near Dartford; they planned to start a second headquarters there. It required more organization on the Order's end, but it was better than having everyone shack up in one spot. Shell Cottage was deemed "the infirmary." Order Members would stay there only if they had sustaining injuries that required long-term care, or if they needed a last-minute place to retreat after a militia effort.

Luna sent _The Introductory Healer's Handbook to Healing_ to Hannah; she had minimal healing experience, but offered to learn for their safehouse. Neville was going to start a garden of plants useful for healing as well, so they wouldn't have to go into Diagon Alley for supplies. Professor McGonagall acted as Dartford's Kingsley; everything was run by her.

"We will sketch out plans for the next phase as soon as possible," Kingsley said once he got back to London. "My primary concern at the moment is the raid on Gringotts. The Death Eaters cannot gain control there, they'll have nearly every magical landmark at their disposal. If we can prevent that attack, then it will be a start."

There was no long-term plan. Most of them assumed it would be a fight to surrender. There was no leader to defeat any longer, no greater evil to dispel. They'd just have to kill each other until someone ran out of soldiers.

Ginny was gone. After Ron Portkeyed there, she disappeared from Shell Cottage. No one saw her go, and no one had seen her anywhere since. Ron, Bill, and George spent days apparating across England, stopping by each registered safehouse they knew of, but came up empty handed. In the end, they gave up, figuring that if she wanted to be found, they would have found her.

"She'll be okay," Bill said, scratching at his scar.

"You know our sister," George said, letting out a dark, humorless chuckle. "Never had to worry about her."

They were empty words. Ron didn't say anything at all.

Grimmauld Place was quiet. They treaded lightly through the house, not allowing even a creak on the old stairs as they walked up and down. Ernie and Ron were often in Kingsley's office for most of the day. Luna was nearing the end of her detective work, but she was finding more and more useful items. A list of magical stores around England, ones that would cater to Order members. A collection of wand holsters, charmed to never break. A map of important landmarks, cities, and territories, magical or otherwise, strategically placed to allow for protection and an upper hand against enemies.

Luna came into the kitchen one day, nothing in her hands but a small square. "I thought you might want this," she said softly, placing it on the table. It was a picture of the three of them: Ron was pulling the tip of his nose up so it resembled a pig's. Hermione was trying to shoo his hand away, her mouth moving rapidly. Harry was laughing between them.

Hermione watched it replay over and over. At the top, around the border, was Harry's nearly illegible scrawl.

_September 1994. Ron and Hermione say hi._

"I think it was in a letter to Sirius," Luna said. "I couldn't find the letter, but…"

She trailed off. Hermione could feel her watching her. She could also feel a single tear escape down her cheek, stopping midway before dropping off her jaw.

"Thank you," she said hoarsely. It was the first time she spoke since Harry died.

When snow started to fall, she was still only really talking to Luna. She would talk to Kingsley when she needed to. Sometimes she'd tell Ernie "good morning" if he happened to come down before anyone else. She avoided Ron like the plague.

Luna made the mistake of bringing it up once. It was nearing Christmas, and Hermione was helping her put up the small amount of decorations she found stowed away in one of the bedrooms. They were pretty sad to look at; covered in so much dust that even a _scourgify_ couldn't clean them well enough. Though tensions were high, the Order wasn't planning a battle any time soon, and it seemed like the Death Eaters weren't either. They'd struck them hard at the beginning of the month; even Death Eaters needed time to heal, it seemed.

Hermione couldn't pinpoint what made Luna do it. She'd been unraveling a wreath to put over the mantle. They were almost done with the salvageable decorations (not even enough to decorate the fireplace properly) when she blurted, "Ron's worried about you."

Hermione stilled. Not looking up, she slowly placed the small, glass figurine of Saint Nicholas that she was holding on the floor.

"Hermione?"

"I don't care," she said quietly.

Luna blinked, her shoulders sagging. "But—"

"I. _Don't_. Care," she repeated, clenching her fists by her side. She turned on her heels and left the living room to sit at the kitchen table. Luna didn't try to talk to her for the rest of the night.

Hermione spent more time at the kitchen table than she'd like to admit. She would sit at the head of the table, the side where Ron had struggled to hold Harry down, and go through every minute of that night with excruciating detail. She'd think about everything she did wrong: she didn't step in front of the green light, she didn't fight hard enough against Ron's grip, she didn't punch Malfoy's chest hard enough, she _called_ Malfoy, she didn't research dark magic herself, she didn't make Harry take pain-relieving potion, she didn't insist that he stay at Grimmauld Place. She didn't even try to argue with Kingsley, didn't even try to take more than a phantom of Ginny's side in agreeing that Harry was too weak to go to Malfoy Manor.

At the beginning, she hoped that she'd catch Malfoy when he came to Grimmauld Place for his meetings with Kingsley, if only to kill him herself. The first time she saw him after Harry died, she had been making coffee as the sun barely began to rise; another sleepless night that she needed to pay for with caffeine and bleariness. When she turned around to grab the bag of coffee beans on the counter behind her, she saw him standing in the entrance of the kitchen in his characteristically black ensemble, looking perfectly put together, as usual.

She froze. After a moment of tense silence between them, where she counted the tiny ticks of her watch until her patience wore thin, she threw her mug at him. It crashed into the wall, shattering into a million pieces. He didn't even blink.

Hermione watched him as he clenched his jaw, expecting a stupid remark about how she should be _thankful_. Her hand itched to grab her wand from the counter and kill him on the spot.

But he did the strangest thing. He kneeled down, picked up every piece of broken ceramic, and brought them to the counter, setting them down before taking out his wand and fixing the mug. There wasn't even a chip on the fading, lime green paint. Before she could even find her resolve to hate him again, he turned and walked out of the kitchen as silently as he came.

She had half a mind to tell Kingsley everything that happened. She was sure Ron didn't explain, didn't elaborate on _how_ Harry died. As far as she knew, everyone thought that Harry died in agony, fighting until his last breath against Dolohov's curse.

But Harry didn't look like that in death. He looked placated, at peace. Only one way of dying made you look like that, and everyone knew it. They also knew that Ron and Hermione would never cast it. Which left only one who would.

No one talked about it, though.

The second time she saw him, it was after her spat with Luna, if one could call it that. This time, it was late, nearing midnight. Snow was coming down in fat flakes, heavy and beautiful. Hermione was watching it from her usual seat, her chin resting on her palm. The one, dull kitchen light gleamed against the glass, making it hard to see anything but her reflection. She didn't like looking at it recently; she looked too thin, too pale, her eyes nothing more than plain brown. No one had bothered to fix the other light yet.

She knew he was in the house, but she hadn't expected to see him. It seemed that he was avoiding her just as much as she was avoiding him. It was rather comforting; Ron often made his way around her, making most of the times she turned a corner an anxious game of chicken. At least she didn't have to worry about running into Malfoy.

He apparently had other plans that day, though, because she instantly saw him in the reflection of the glass, leaning against the entrance of the kitchen. She narrowed her eyes at the window, intent on shooing him away with her face only.

"Why are you in here?" he finally asked softly, and she heard it again. The pity. Her fingernails dug into her palm, threatening to cut skin.

"Why does anyone go anywhere, Malfoy?" she asked coldly, shakily. "Perhaps I enjoy reliving some of the worst moments of my life."

He sighed, his hand coming up to massage above his brows. "You know, when I said that, I never expected to be in a position where you could repeat it."

She stared hard at the window, her cheeks beginning to burn. "I think I'd like to cash in on a debt, Malfoy," she seethed. She turned to finally look at him properly. "Do me a favor, and leave me alone."

His shoulders lowered. "Granger—"

"I don't want to ever talk to you again."

"I'm trying to tell you something."

"You're doing a piss-poor job of it," she said darkly. "Spit it out, then get out of my sight."

He took a deep breath, his face steeling over. He stared directly through her, and she was sure he could see everything.

"I'm sorry."

Hermione stiffened. "You don't get to say that to me," she hissed.

"Granger—"

"Get out of here!" she shouted, rocketing from her chair and advancing threateningly close. She wanted to push him away, out the door, out of her life, but she balked at his sudden step towards her. His face was painted too brightly with concern, with insistency, and it made her heart stutter that there was a possibility that Malfoy could actually feel sorry for her.

"Listen to me," he said gently. "There's nothing you could've done differently—"

"There's _always_ something," she spat. She straightened, lifting her chin. "You got what you wanted, Malfoy. I can't imagine how many times you dreamt of killing him."

He pressed his lips together, and his head began to shake lightly. "I never did."

She hated her body's betrayal. Her sight was becoming watery, and her lip trembled underneath her teeth. She bit harder, coming close to tearing her traitorous mouth.

He inhaled sharply and threw his gaze to the floor. His mouth opened and closed, fighting against anything he might say. "It's…" he paused, shutting his eyes. "It's called _acidum comedenti_."

Hermione instinctively took a step back. She'd never done well with languages, but even her miniscule amount of knowledge could translate the curse.

Acid eater.

"Don't," she whispered, her resolve weakening.

"There isn't a counter curse—"

"Don't!" she strangled out, turning away from him, her hands covering her face. She didn't want to hear it. She didn't want to feel helpless, she didn't want to be anything less than angry at him, at Ron, at the stupid world that did anything less than welcome her.

"Granger—"

"I don't want to know!" she shrieked, the dishes in the sink rattling. Her chest spasmed against her. "If you have any good in you, Malfoy," she mumbled into her hands, stopping him coming any closer, "you will leave and never bring it up again."

The kitchen remained stagnant as they both refused to breathe. She heard his shoes snap over the tile, a slow retreat. They paused at the kitchen entrance.

"It's better with the light off," he said quietly.

She didn't turn, didn't allow her mind to turn over what he said. She heard him sigh, and suddenly the kitchen light blinked off. She lifted her head, frowning, but she didn't get the chance to watch him saunter out of Grimmauld Place.

She could see the snow drifting onto the ground out the window. Without the glare from the light, it was clear that the flakes had turned small and dainty, falling like tiny specks of glowing ash from a fire. The sky wasn't even close to the black of night; it was blue, a deep, dark blue that made the snow glitter as it set on the ground.

Hermione reached for the back of a chair, gripping it tightly for support. She'd never seen anything like it. The snow that was charmed to fall from the ceiling of the Great Hall was only a shade compared to it. She was enchanted by two flakes that collided, twisting in a light, beautiful dance as they tumbled from the sky.

Hermione sat for a long time, watching the snow. When her eyes finally started to droop, she decided he was right. It was better with the light off.

* * *

"Luna," she started. She wrung her hands nervously.

Luna hummed, not looking up from her parchment. She was sitting in front of the fire, her back to the roaring heat, a small pile of some of the last amounts of junk hidden around the house.

"Have…" Hermione licked her lips. "Have you ever come across any…"

Luna looked up, blinking innocently.

"…books about dark magic?" Hermione said quickly. She shifted her weight from side to side.

Luna slowly put the parchment down, frowning. "Well…" she said slowly, her eyes far away as she considered the question. "There might be some in Regulus' old room."

Hermione nodded. "Thank you."

She turned and took the stairs two at a time, not allowing Luna to question her.

There were two on the small bookcase that she found. The first had nothing of interest, barely scraping past the requirements of malevolence and fortitude for a wizard to perform _any_ sort of dark magic. Hermione tossed it aside, scoffing. The second book glared at her from the floor. When she picked it up, she was suddenly aware of a low thrumming in her ears, making all other sounds of life in the house seem distant. She opened the cover, turning to the table of contents.

It was the last chapter that caught her interest. _Counter-less Curses_. She flipped to the page, scanning through every boldfaced spell with shaking fingers. Finally, she found it, just as she thought the book would end.

**_Acidum comedenti._ ** _One of the most dangerous spells within the realm of dark magic, **acidum comedenti** requires more from its caster than most. Along with malicious intent and determination, this curse is rendered useless without a specific hatred for its target, and a high level of skill from the wizard behind the wand. There are very few recorded uses of **acidum comedenti** that have been successful; the failed cases resulting in the caster being cursed instead._

**_Acidum comedenti_ ** _is a spell like no other. It acts as a living thing, attaching to its target like a parasite and draining their life source. It is most often described as a black, glittering mass, that eats away anything in its path with long tendrils. Once casted, there is no stopping its path. Recorded cases describe intense, incredible pain from the target, and there have been no survivors._

_While **acidum comedenti** is a complicated and powerful curse, that is not the sole reason for it being counter-less. The nature of this curse requires no regret from the caster, hence its inability to be stopped or cured. **Acidum comedenti** is a sentence of extremely painful and unavoidable death and should be reserved for only the truest of enemies._

Hermione slowly set the book down, her mind reeling. Malfoy was right; there was no counter curse, no cure. A shudder went through her. _What if_ , she thought, _what if Malfoy hadn't…_

She squeezed her eyes shut, shaking her head and scrambling away from the book. It suddenly hurt more to think that in the long history of the curse, Harry's happened to be one the only cases that rang true of the caster's intentions. She glared at the book, wanting to set it aflame, but turned on her heel instead, slamming the door to Regulus' bedroom behind her.

When she turned into the living room again, she stopped in her tracks at seeing Ron and Luna sitting together. They were unbearably close as they poured over the pile of junk, staring intently at a map. Ron was pointing at the parchment, and Luna was smiling.

Hermione waited for the all too familiar wrench at her heart, but there was nothing. She took a slow step forward, the floor creaking under her, and they both looked up, Ron immediately drew away, his eyebrows furrowing as plain anxiety wrote itself on his face.

"Did you find what you were looking for?" Luna finally asked.

"Yes," Hermione said, walking fully into the living room and sitting on the couch across from them.

"What were you looking for?" Ron asked hesitantly. His shoulders were tense, making him appear hunched.

Hermione allowed a small smile, shaking her head. "Nothing important. A book to read."

She wouldn't tell him. Ron would be okay if he never knew. Unlike her. She leaned forward, ignoring their looks of worry to gesture towards their pile.

"So, how's treasure hunting going?"

Luna immediately brightened, sifting through the pile and pulling out everything in the order of interest and utility. As she babbled, Hermione caught Ron watching her. They locked eyes, for a moment everything drowning out around them, and Hermione allowed herself to let go of her anger, of everything that made her avoid him before. When she smiled, his one in return was grateful.

* * *

On Christmas day, everyone from the Dartford safehouse came to London. Hermione could hear Professor McGonagall's stern voice wafting from the floor below, and Ernie laughing loudly at Michael Corner's expense. Hermione shifted, pressing her back into the headboard of the bed and hugging her knees to her chest.

She hadn't been downstairs yet. She paced in front of the bedroom door all morning, willing herself to grab the knob and see everyone, but her courage was zapped. She couldn't bring herself to do it, not when her ghosts were following her.

Last year, she didn't have the time to think. Nagini almost killed them, and there was no way to destroy Horcruxes. She almost wished there was a surprise attack, a blindside that could distract her. Instead, all she could see was her mother when she closed her eyes.

_"Why do we have to go?" Hermione grumbled, lacing her pink snow boots with frustration._

_Her mother sighed, grabbing her coat from the rack by the door and holding it out for her. Hermione glared before reluctantly pulling her arms through._

_"Because, love," her mother said, her warm hands resting on her shoulders. She turned Hermione to face her and smiled artfully, grasping her face and thumbing lightly at her cheek. "They're family. And it's Christmas."_

_Hermione pouted, gravity pulling her mouth into a miserable frown. "We're our own family," she argued. "I want to stay here." She folded her arms across her chest stubbornly. "Cassie always makes fun of me."_

_Her mother tilted her head, her eyes beginning to dim sadly. "You're special, Hermione. Cassandra just doesn't understand that."_

_Hermione rolled her eyes. "She made fun of me before my hair could crackle."_

_"I'm not talking about that," her mother said quickly. It was a sore subject, one that none of them really understood, and in a family of people who needed to know things, they often ignored it. "You're a special girl regardless. You're my special girl."_

_Hermione huffed. "Well, can't your special girl just stay home?" she whined._

_Her mother laughed, always elegant and bright, and Hermione softened despite herself. Her mother kissed her forehead, looking at her earnestly. "Christmas is for family, Hermione."_

_She stood, turning to the kitchen in search for her father. He was always losing his keys._

Hermione huddled into herself further. She wished more than ever to make the wretched trip to see her father's side of the family. She even wanted to see her stupid cousin, if only for the chance to sing Christmas songs with her parents on the way there.

But she couldn't. There wasn't family for Christmas left.

She jumped out of her skin at a knock, her head twisting painfully to see Ron at the doorway. He was pressing his lips together, shifting his weight from foot to foot.

"Coming down?" he asked quietly.

Hermione bit her lip and nodded hesitantly.

"Good," he said, turning to leave.

"Wait!"

She flung herself from the bed, grabbing a heavy parcel wrapped in the plainest paper imaginable. She crossed the room quickly, holding it in front of her chest. At his questioning look, she thrust it towards him.

"Happy Christmas," she breathed out.

"Hermione…" Ron took the parcel, shaking his head. "We said no gifts."

"You're my best friend, Ron," she said, the excuse already lying in wait at her lips. "That's certainly cause for an exception."

He chuckled and began to tear into the parcel. As the wrapping paper fell to the floor like unceremonious bits of confetti, he slowed, his eyes darting across the gift in awe.

"How?" he gasped out.

She smiled sheepishly. "Luna and I went to one of those shops for supplies. When I saw it, I couldn't resist."

His hands turned over the chessboard, his mouth frozen and hanging open. It was nothing much, not even made from real wood, and there were scraps across the squares from longtime use. Her hands fidgeted nervously, picking at her fingernails as he admired it.

"It's not wizard's chess," she blurted, flicking her gaze between him and the board. "You'll have to move them yourself. None of that ridiculous maiming, either."

"You always thought it was barbaric," he managed, a smile spreading across his cheeks. "Leave it to you to take out all the fun."

She waved him off, giggling. "It might be good for a couple games, though."

He raised an eyebrow, looking at her doubtfully. "Who would play with me?"

She stilled, suddenly at a loss. "Me?" she squeaked.

Ron barked out a laugh. "Hermione, really? As smart as you are, strategy isn't exactly your game."

She folded her arms across her chest, jutting her chin. He was right; she was sure her chess skills made the founders roll in their graves. "Fine. Ernie?"

He shook his head, the corners of his mouth turning downwards. "Played him before. Beat him every time."

"Well, stop being so good then," she teased. She stared at the board, her mind turning, and before she could stop herself, her tongue began to fly. "Malfoy?" she suggested quietly.

Her hand slapped across her mouth, and she threw her head down to look at the floor. _Stupid, stupid, stupid_ , she chided herself, waiting for Ron to shoot down the idea. When the room was still quiet, she cautiously looked up at him, searching for the telltale red to bloom across his cheeks.

"Malfoy, huh?" he grunted, frowning. "Never played him before." His fingers tapped against the board, thinking. "He might be good for a game."

Hermione raised her eyebrows, her heart pattering with every beat of silence between them. Ron straightened, holding the board gently at his side.

"Only to put the ferret in his place, of course," he said confidently, grinning.

Hermione smiled widely, her laugh coming in blows against her chest. She felt the corners of her eyes crinkling, the thought of Malfoy storming out of Grimmauld Place after a failed chess match suddenly the funniest thing in the world. She could practically see his scowl, hear his driveling voice promising to never sit down with Ronald Weasley again. Ron was howling with her, his free hand supporting him against the doorframe.

And then Hermione felt it. The space between them. It was empty, left blank by force of habit. As their laughs began to die, she heard the absence of another taunt against Malfoy; a perfect impression of his all too common threat that his father would hear about this suddenly gone, as the two of them could never do it as well as he could.

The reason Ron would never have another chess partner that could come close to beating him on a good day.

Hermione looked up at him and knew that Ron felt it too.

"I miss him," she whispered, afraid to acknowledge it. Their first Christmas without the better third.

Ron swallowed, his breath coming in uneven heaves.

"Me too."

She reached forward, clutching around his neck like he was the air she needed to breathe. His big arms wrapped around her waist, his desperation melting into her.

"I'm sorry, Ron," she warbled, squeezing her eyes shut and choking on the horrible burning that was too familiar now. "I shouldn't have told you to go away. I'm so _sorry_ —"

"It's okay, Hermione," he whispered, his voice hot against her neck. "It's okay."

He pulled away slightly, grim determination set on his face. "We'll have a good Christmas," he said earnestly. "He'd want that."

Hermione pressed her lips together tightly, nodding and wiping away at her cheek. Ron took her hand, leading her out of the bedroom and down the stairs. Everyone roared as they came into the living room, the fire crackling and the lights nearly blinding, and Hermione genuinely smiled as Ernie handed her a cup full of what was sure to be spiked eggnog from his private stash.

* * *

The Dartford crew stayed until New Year's. The house had been surprisingly quiet, Hermione reading in the living room across from Padma, when she looked up to see Ernie, Ron, and Michael whispering to each other in the foyer. She narrowed her eyes at them until Ron noticed, his eyes widening as he tapped Ernie on the shoulder. The other boy turned and smirked, sidling up and leaning over the back of the couch, in her personal space.

"How goes it, Hermione?"

"Whatever you are scheming, _no_."

"Don't be such a prude!"

"Ernie," she said sternly, tossing her book aside and glaring at him pointedly. "Our situation really doesn't allow it."

"You think _they_ aren't going to be at it? Why shouldn't we have a bit of fun?"

"Are we doing something?"

Padma perked up from the couch across from her, her eyes twinkling. "Tell me we're doing something."

"Only if the prefect doesn't rat on us," Ernie taunted, a smart arch to his brow.

" _You_ were a prefect too," Hermione huffed.

"And I _didn't_ organize Hufflepuff parties," he retorted, rolling his eyes. "I think we have you cornered. Everyone wants to."

Hermione's eyes darted between all of them, Ron and Michael suddenly closer than they were before. Her shoulders lowered in defeat.

"Fine," she spat, folding her arms across her chest and fuming.

"Yes!" Ernie pulled away, walking a little too quickly towards the kitchen. "I make an excellent bartender. And there's no need for designated flyers, so I expect to be taking shots with you, Hermione!" he called behind him.

As it neared midnight, Hermione and Luna giggled unabashedly as they headed towards the kitchen, carrying another _magnificent_ buy that Hermione just couldn't pass up. The kitchen was filled to the brim, loud and scintillating like she'd never seen before, and she staggered to the counter, her fingers fumbling clumsily with the stereo. She laughed excitedly as the first beats of high-pitched synth began to rumble through the room, her hand shooting out to grab at Luna's shoulder for support.

"Hermione…" Ernie wavered into her view, already filling her glass with more Firewhiskey even though she didn't ask. His eyes were lidded, a bright flush against his cheeks. "Tell me," he slurred. "What the _fuck_ is this?"

Hermione laughed. The floor was spinning under her, but she didn't care. "Tell _me_ , Ernie," she hiccupped. "Ever heard of Prince?"

Everyone crowded around her as she held up her watch, the only clock in the room. She could barely see the hands, and she wasn't even sure if it was time yet, but she didn't care. Ernie stood next to her, stumbling forward and raising his glass.

"I'd just like to say," he said loudly over the ruckus. "Three cheers for the _bloody_ Death Eaters! I hope they have a good time, 'cause this'll be the year we _fucking_ get them!"

Everyone jostled around Hermione, threatening to make the entire crew fall to the floor.

"Shut it, Macmillan!" Michael yelled. "You'll miss the fucking countdown!"

Hermione struggled to hold her watch high enough for everyone to see, staggering and stepping on people's feet as they started to count. Her only coherent thought was that this was the best moment of her life, and she didn't want anything to end.

The room exploded at midnight. Padma shrieked in her ear, jumping up and down against her and screaming "1999!" over and over, the entire crowd joining her. She watched as Ernie's eyes widened, pointing behind her and shouting "They're fucking snogging!" She turned, everything in slow motion, to see Neville and Hannah Abbott going at it, their hands lost in each other's hair. There was smashing glass, the table and chairs scraping at the floor, and they rode out their highs with only the hope that the new year would treat them better.

* * *

On January 2nd, their high came to a crashing stop. The boys were in a meeting with Professor McGonagall and Kingsley for most of the day, no doubt about the upcoming defense of Gringotts. Everyone knew that the visit from Dartford had mostly been a ploy for the two heads of the Order to meet, but it was easy to cast the thought away amongst the holidays. With nothing to distract them now, the only ever-present event caught up to them. Hermione's headache hadn't gone away since New Year's, but she was sure that it had nothing to do with the alcohol anymore.

Hermione and Hannah exchanged notes over healing. They sat close together at the kitchen table, pouring over _The Introductory Healer's Handbook to Healing_ and scratching lines of knowledge into the margins, locking everything to memory. They were only interrupted by the waterfall of feet coming down the stairs, and Neville walking quietly into the kitchen, bending to kiss the top of Hannah's head.

"Time to go," he muttered into her hair.

Their goodbyes were short, hugs never lingering too long. "We'll see you soon," Michael said as they exited Grimmauld Place. "Be safe."

It was quiet again. Not even a creak in the steps as someone went up and down the stairs. Hermione was at the kitchen table again, biting her nails, thinking. It was only when Malfoy appeared in the entrance, like he always did, that the fuzziness in her mind dispelled.

There was still a war. Her parents were gone. Harry was gone. Ginny had disappeared, a battle was coming, and Malfoy was an Order member.

The holidays were a dream, and Hermione just woke up.

Malfoy roughly dropped a large package in front of her. "Happy holidays."

Hermione stared at the brown wrapping, considering it anything but happy.

"Are you going to open it?" he asked after a moment, his impatience clear.

Hermione glared at him, shifting forward and tearing at the paper as slowly as she could. "Just waiting for me to sprout boils, aren't you?" she retorted.

Any more insults faded from her tongue as she peered into the box. Her heart leapt into her mouth at seeing countless vials, the handwriting pristine and familiar, and a large textbook just waiting to be opened, titled _Spells for the Learning Healer_. She snapped her head up to look at him confusedly.

"Daphne insisted," he said carefully.

"Daphne?" she spluttered. "She knows?"

He cocked his head, an eyebrow raising condescendingly. "I've known Daphne all my life. I couldn't hide anything from her if I tried."

Hermione stared at him, two truths suddenly becoming clear as day to her. One being that Daphne Greengrass was far worth trusting than she realized. Number two was more of an inherent curiosity, a piece to the puzzle she longed to hold in her fingers: knowing Draco Malfoy well enough that he couldn't lie to her.

She dismissed the thought immediately. It was impossible, and something she couldn't care for even if it would be useful.

Hermione slouched, releasing a breath she hadn't realized she was holding. "Send her my thanks," she said slowly, erasing any hint of emotion.

Malfoy smirked. "I already did."

He turned swiftly and sauntered towards the hallway. "And Granger," he called behind him, his voice chilling. "I'd study up now. You'll need it."


	6. Chapter 6

* * *

6

_"It was so much easier to blame it on Them. It was bleakly depressing to think that They were Us. If it was Them, then nothing was anyone's fault. If it was us, what did that make Me? After all, I'm one of Us. I must be. I've certainly never thought of myself as one of Them. No one ever thinks of themselves as one of Them. We're always one of Us. It's Them that do the bad things."_

_Terry Pratchett_

* * *

They were losing. Badly. Hermione threw her back into a pillar, peeking out behind it only to yelp and retreat, her hand splatting against her cheek. She hissed, her skin burning at the grit on her fingers, just above her cheekbone becoming wet and sticky to the touch. She pulled her hand away gingerly, only to see blood; bright red, nearly blinding against the grey of dust and rubble around them.

Rubbing her hand fervently on her jeans, she flinched away from the entrance to the main hall as another spell rocketed by her. Hermione sliced through the air with her wand, throwing up a _protego_ at her backside before shooting blindly towards the lobby of Gringotts, any potential target hidden in the darkness and fog. Ron crashed into the pillar opposite to her own, hurling a red spark into the lobby in front of them.

"Whose idea was this?!" Hermione shouted to him, ducking as another spell came flying towards her face.

"There shouldn't be this many!" The floor rumbled beneath them, and Ron stumbled to the ground as the building shook, another shard of ceiling tile falling, dust blowing into the main hall like a sandstorm. Hermione rushed to him, crouching with her arms protecting her head before scooping him up and wedging them both behind the pillar again.

"I'm going to kill Malfoy," Ron grunted. He twisted, his eyes darting through the gloom behind them as he tightened his grip on his wand.

"Cover me," he said quickly, and he bolted from behind the pillar, only giving Hermione seconds to follow. She cast another _protego_ around them both, pouring what little energy she had left into the shield as they ran through the lobby. Ron was striking nearly all the hooded figures that appeared from behind fallen marble and plaster, but not before their hexes collided with the shield, ricocheting from the barrier and creating spidery cracks in the surface, like lightning striking against the sky. Hermione was focusing everything she had into the _protego_ , willing it to remain solid when Ron suddenly veered off, colliding into a tall head of blond hair and tackling it into a nearby alcove. Hermione squeezed herself in with them, casting a quick Disillusionment Charm.

"What the fuck, Weasley?!"

"No, you! What the fuck is _this_?!"

Malfoy looked like hell, although the barely flickering lights of the lobby did nothing to help his situation. Hermione had always assigned his appearance as skeletal, but the dust and grime painted in uneven blotches across his face made him gaunt and borderline terrifying. He straightened, leaning as far away from her and Ron as possible (that possibility being slim considering the dwarfed space) and raised a taunting brow.

"I thought that this was a battle. Were you not clear on the situation?" he sneered.

"You didn't make it bloody _clear_ that there would be this many," Ron hissed back, tilting his chin in an ever-so threatening manner.

"I _said_ they called reinforcements—"

"Yeah, reinforcements! Not a damn _army_!"

"What would you have _me_ do about it?!" Malfoy spluttered, his mouth twisting incredulously.

"You could have called it off!"

"And out myself as a traitor? Not bloody likely."

Ron suddenly lunged, his wand jabbing into Malfoy's neck as he pushed him against the wall. Hermione's eyes widened, and she grabbed at his shoulders in a desperate attempt to pull him away.

"Ron—!"

"Is this some sort of _game_ to you, ferret? We need to secure Gringotts!"

"I'm telling you that it is just as much in _their_ interest to secure it as it is yours! I'm not a fucking miracle worker!"

"You _want_ them to win, you piece of shit—!"

"Stop it!" Hermione yelled. She forced herself between them, knocking Ron's arm away. "You're acting like children!"

"If you're so certain of losing, at least be of some use and kill somebody on your way out!" Malfoy shouted.

"Great idea! I know just where to start!"

Ron moved to push her away, struggling to reach Malfoy and likely throttle him. Hermione rammed her forearms into his chest, throwing him against the opposite wall, and herself against Malfoy with so much force that she heard the crack of Malfoy's head against the alcove.

"Killing him isn't going to solve anything, Ronald!" she scolded, glaring furiously. "We need another plan!"

She could feel both boys heaving against her, the clash of their anger making it both violently cold and hot within the space at the same time. She watched Ron, waiting for his natural proclivity to strategize, but he only scowled over her head, his cheeks brilliantly inflamed. Hermione exhaled heavily, and twisted her head to look at Malfoy in the corner of her eye.

"What can we do?" she asked him tersely.

Malfoy scoffed. "Retreat. I'm not dying over a bloody bank."

"That's a first," Ron shot out.

"Besides _that_ ," Hermione chided, narrowing her eyes.

She felt Malfoy's chest rise against her back, a huff of warm air hitting her hair uncomfortably.

"You could get the dragon," he said doubtfully.

Hermione bit her lip. "The…new dragon?" she asked quietly.

It was quiet in the alcove, the whizzing of spells a few feet away becoming anxiously prominent. She could barely see Malfoy drop his shoulders, his head tilting confusedly.

"The _new_ dragon?"

"Well, the old one is, um…gone," she said hesitantly.

Ron's eyes darted between her and Malfoy, now weary at the turn of conversation.

"I don't even want to know," Malfoy said finally.

"It's kind of long, anyway," Ron supplied.

Malfoy shifted behind her, cursing under his breath as he slithered towards the entrance of the alcove. He peeked his head out, looking left and right. Hermione relaxed against Ron, stepping away slightly and peering at Malfoy's back, trying hard not to notice the pale scar that hid underneath his hair, the only mark remaining from that damn day in the Astronomy Tower.

"Get everyone out," he said. His shoulders dropped, as if there was a sudden and immense weight dropping on him.

Hermione balked. "We're not retreating, Malfoy."

"Did I say that you were?" he snapped, twisting to face them. "Just do it. Wait outside. You'll know when to come back in."

Hermione stood rooted to her spot, nearly transfixed by him. He was determined, his mind set, she realized, and it slightly terrified her to wonder what exactly he just decided to do. Ron brushed past her, joining Malfoy at the edge of the alcove.

"I'll go left, you go right?" he asked, although it was more of an order than a suggestion.

Hermione swallowed and nodded, and Ron sprinted off, his figure becoming hazy around the bubble of a _protego_. Malfoy was watching her, almost as if he was waiting for a question, and she suddenly felt perturbed that he had gotten her pegged.

"What are you going to do?" she breathed out. Her heart was pounding against her chest, like a caged, wild animal that needed to escape a terrible fate.

Malfoy pressed his lips together, and he took a step toward her, now towering over her frame. She flinched when he brought the tip of his wand to her face, lightly pressing it under the cut on her cheek. His eyes were nearly clear, focused as the wound stitched together; her cheek felt fuzzy, like there were tendrils of cotton tickling her face.

"Does it matter?" he asked quietly. "You'll win."

She didn't know what caused her to say it. Maybe it was because she suddenly felt a warm fluttering at the bottom of her stomach, a side effect not common with healing spells but the only explanation she could procure for it. Maybe it was how he watched her, his eyes reminding her of perfect clouds on a summer day that nearly blinded you, eyes that never left her own. Maybe it was because – and it was only a logical jump to make after everything he'd done for the Order – she was starting to trust him.

Afterward, she'd scold herself. He was a Slytherin, a bully, a prat, her enemy of nearly nine years. Trust wasn't something he deserved, especially from her. But in Gringotts, when he healed her for no particular reason at all, it was the only thing she could think to say.

"We'll win," she corrected, her heart calming and quiet.

As always, his face was unreadable. But in the proximity of the alcove, where everything was dark, she saw a flash of _something_ in his eyes, and their openness was suddenly gone.

"Go," he said tightly, retreating out of the alcove. "Don't be stupid, either. You're no use to the Order if you're dead."

And he was gone.

Hermione raced through her side of the lobby, flinging spells wildly and shouting at any Order member she saw to get out of Gringotts. She made so many laps that she knew by memory which of the broken slabs of marble were unstable, which ceiling lights shot sparks that could singe her hair, and she didn't stop until she saw no one but Death Eaters crawling through the debris. When she finally left the building, the afternoon sun was too bright, reminding her of when she'd walk out of matinees in Muggle London. She squinted against the beams that reflected off the windows, her hand shielding her eyes as she stumbled away from Gringotts.

There was a huddled mass of figures ahead of her. Hermione headed towards them, struggling against weariness and exhaustion to get there. It was like her body was slow, nearly shutting down after so much, refusing to work at the same speed as her thoughts. She registered someone running towards her, their hair billowing behind them, but she didn't know it was Padma until she was grabbing her shoulders and shaking her violently.

"Did you see Michael?!" she shrieked. Her eyes were wide and threatening to spill over with tears. "We got separated, Ron didn't find him—"

"He's not here?!" Hermione staggered, her knees weak.

"We have to find him! Ron said that we can't be in there!"

Hermione twisted, staring up at the smoking building. Her mind was moving a hundred kilometers an hour, but her body wouldn't move. Padma was nearly falling on her, and her limbs felt like they were mush, dragging through thick mud and fighting against her. She took a step forward, trying to breathe and focus and slow down and _do_ something.

_Michael can't be in there_ , she thought frantically. _We have to go back, we have to find him before—_

"We'll get him," she assured Padma, reaching for anything insistent left in her. "We'll find him, he'll be okay—"

Hermione froze. She tasted blood in her mouth. Metallic.

Dark magic.

She saw the explosion of dust before it hit her. There was a gigantic boom, thunder rattling her bones and throwing her backwards into the street. Her head collided with Padma's stomach, and they instinctively curled into each other, Hermione's arms somehow finding their way over her head as a strong surge of wind rushed by them. Her eyes were stinging, she felt pricks of glass cutting into her wrists. She whimpered, daring to open her eyes.

The world was dizzy, her vision swimming. She couldn't hear anything but ringing, high-pitched and screaming in her ears. She felt her stomach twist, waves of the explosion bouncing inside of her and threatening to make her sick. She gagged, hands finding her shoulders and back and lifting her upwards, causing the ground to spin under her. Hermione blinked, catching dark blue, a flash of red, a moving mouth. Ron was yelling at her. His voice was garbled, like she was underwater, being carried and spun by an undertow.

"…mione! Can you hear me?!"

Hermione nodded, gagging again as her stomach threatened to upend itself.

"What the hell was that?!" another voice shouted, too loud, too close. Hermione lifted her hand faintly, catching Ron's and holding as tightly as she could, desperate for something solid.

"Malfoy," she said hoarsely. Ron's eyes were back, as large as saucers.

"There's no bloody way," he gasped.

Hermione slowly sat up, grasping at her stomach and staring up at Gringotts. All the windows were shattered. The top pyre was crumbling, cracking against itself and leaning crookedly. Dust and plaster clouded the air, nearly yellow under the sun.

"'You'll know when to come back in,'" she said quietly.

In hindsight, it was almost funny that someone like Malfoy would make a signal so obvious.

Padma was immobile next to her. She stared up at the smoking building, unseeing. There were two lines of clear, clean skin that dribbled down her cheeks and darkened the soot that covered the rest of her face. With her mouth slightly agape, there was a slight tremble to her bottom lip; the only movement that Hermione could point out. It was like Padma wasn't even breathing.

Ernie kneeled beside her, his fingers fumbling between themselves uncharacteristically. Hermione watched as his mouth opened and closed, his eyebrows drawing together and wrinkling his forehead. She decided she didn't like anxiety on Ernie; it was so strange to see him anything but confident.

"Padma," he said gently. When she didn't look at him, his hand darted out, cupping her cheek and forcing her to turn. "We'll find him. He's okay, I'm sure of it."

Padma was quiet; Hermione couldn't see her face, only her frizzy and tangled hair. But she could see Ernie's, how he swallowed, how uncertainty glimmered like a jewel caught in the light. He couldn't even lie to himself.

"He can't be in there," Padma repeated dazedly. Ernie pressed his lips together, his gaze shifting to Ron and Hermione.

"We have to go in," he said coldly.

"Are you kidding?" Ron asked weakly. "That bank will collapse with us in it."

As if on cue, a deep rumble shivered through the building. The very top of the pyre shattered, the stone pinging against iron beams in its descent through the gaping holes of the ceiling.

"All the more reason," Ernie insisted.

"Malfoy said to come back in," Hermione said slowly. She looked up at Ron and hoisted herself from the ground, blinking any remaining fog away rapidly. "We haven't won yet."

Ron twisted back and forth between her and Ernie before throwing his eyes to the sky, shaking his head ever so slightly. "Fine. I'll get Kingsley, and we'll go," he said grimly, turning to head back to the crowd of Order members.

"Get Luna too," Ernie said. "For Padma."

Any of the faulty lighting during the battle was snuffed out after the explosion, Hermione realized. It was entirely too dark for an afternoon. The marble floors lacked their shine, drying blood mixing with plaster and stone in some twisted form of slush that stained, never to be removed. Hermione looked up; through the mangled holes in the ceiling, the sky was blue, brilliant and cloudless. A perfect day.

"'Mione," Ron called in front of her, his voice still echoing through the lobby despite the tarnish and emptiness. He gestured to the right, and Hermione advanced, passing the wall that blocked her view.

Her mouth dropped. There were bodies – Death Eater bodies – littering the floor, sprawled like dark puddles of rain. She whirled, turning to her left, seeing a near mirror image; heaps of robes, a pair of feet poking from underneath rubble. It was too quiet in Gringotts, not so much a whisper of air to indicate any sort of life.

"What did he do?" Ron whispered.

Hermione fumbled, unable to take her eyes off a Death Eater near them, the bottom half of him crushed underneath a fallen ceiling tile. "I don't know," she whispered back, helpless.

"Head to the hall," Kingsley said, his voice lost of its normal robustness. "He'll be there, yes?"

"He didn't say," Ron answered.

"Well, we'll find out, won't we?" Ernie muttered. He started for the entrance in front of them, craning his neck to see fallen faces, searching. Kingsley was ahead of him, already stalking into the main hall, the bodies nearly forgotten.

Hermione was surprised to see the hall of Gringotts mostly intact. There were less casualties there, enough to count on both hands, and the desks that usually harbored goblins hard at work were barely scathed. She approached one, calmly setting right a small paperweight, a dragon that snarled and writhed around itself. Not even a single sheet of parchment was out of place; the only thing seemingly out of the ordinary was the stench of dark magic, nearly clouding the rest of her senses.

"Draco." A voice drifted from the front of the hall, and Hermione turned, seeing Theodore Nott kneeling in front of Malfoy. Malfoy was on the floor, leaning against a pillar, his head hung low and his legs sprawled in front of him. He held his wand weakly in his left hand.

Theo grabbed his shoulder, shaking him slightly. "Draco," he said again, and his hand flashed, slapping him square across the cheek. Hermione jumped, her eyebrows shooting upwards.

" _Fuck_ ," Malfoy groaned. "I heard you the first time."

"I prefer prompt answers."

"Sod off."

Theo started to smirk, but it stopped halfway to gracing his lips. He twisted, catching sight of Hermione and the other Order members. He eyed them warily, biting his tongue and twirling his wand in his hand as they approached. Hermione saw Ernie point his wand in the corner of her eye, and Theo immediately lifted himself from the floor, but instead of aiming back, his hands came up by his head in surrender.

"I'm helping Draco. No need to hex me," he said snidely.

"I think aligning with one Death Eater is enough," Ron growled, his own wand coming up as well.

"Boys, please," Kingsley said tiredly, waving them off.

"You'll need my help if you want to get out of this shitfest," Theo sneered. "How are you going to get them all out of here?"

Hermione frowned, whirling in place to scan the room again. "They're not…" Hermione fumbled, gnawing at her lip. "Dead?"

"I bloody well hope not," Theo scoffed. "It'd take some skill to lie ourselves out of that one."

"I'm sure it wouldn't be too hard to muster, snake," Ron said lowly.

" _Please_ ," Kingsley said earnestly. His hand came up to rub at the bridge of his nose, a giant sigh wracking through his torso. "Mister Malfoy," he continued, a small amount of terseness finding its way into his tone. "What do you suggest we do?"

Malfoy lifted his head, allowing it to rest crookedly against the pillar behind him. Hermione watched him; he looked exhausted, his chest heaving and the wall doing more to support him than anything else. If it was possible, he was more pale than usual, his light eyes nearly sunken in.

"Obliviate them," he said, his voice so hushed that it barely traveled across the hall. "So they think they retreated after the explosion. Apparate them back to the Manor." He threw his gaze to the ceiling, licking his lips. "It's the safest place they'd go to."

Kingsley's chin was tilted downwards, the closest thing to a glare from his composed demeanor. "Mister Nott, how adept are you at memory charms?"

Theo dropped his hands finally, raising an eyebrow. "They're feasible."

"Accompany Miss Granger in Obliviating them, then," Kingsley ordered. "You two," Kingsley turned, his robes flaring with the movement as he faced Ernie and Ron. "Take them to Malfoy Manor once the memory charm is finished. And Mister Malfoy…"

Malfoy glanced at Kingsley through the corner of his eye. Kingsley started towards him.

"A word?"

Hermione stared as Kingsley and Theo passed each other, as Kingsley kneeled in front of Malfoy, his mouth suddenly unaccompanied as he spoke. Theo approached her, a dark matt of blood and hair on the side of his head suddenly prominent.

"Ladies first," he drawled, gesturing towards the closest body towards them.

Hermione narrowed her eyes, casting one last look at Malfoy before turning on her heels, her wand already gripped hard in her hand.

* * *

As January turned to February, most of the Order members in London and Dartford were stationed at Gringotts, casting wards and generally waiting around for another Death Eater attack. They didn't expect it to happen, but it was a precaution all the same. Ron, Ernie, and Luna would come to back Grimmauld Place late, tired and drained and asking for more research on protection spells.

"Is there one that prevents against buildings collapsing?" Ron asked one night, not even all the way through the door.

Hermione sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. "Yes. It's called putting in support beams."

"That's not particularly helpful."

"So you have a better idea, then?"

But Ron wasn't listening. He wasn't even looking at her. Luna brushed past them, walking to her customary couch in the living room, and his eyes followed her, not aware that Hermione was following him.

"Just look for one," he finally said impatiently. "The walls keep cracking open and I'm not about to be crushed by whatever's left of the ceiling."

Hermione pressed her lips together. The truth of it was, she was tired too. She made daily travels with Hannah to Shell Cottage; Angelina had a broken leg that needed casting, George's missing ear had reopened, and she was trying to brew Wolfsbane Potion faster than the two days required so Bill could take it during the week leading up to the full moon. She sniffed, unsuccessfully dispelling her short temper.

"You know, I'm busy too, Ronald," she said icily. "You can look yourself."

Ron glanced back at her, his eyes narrowing.

"Sorry," she muttered. Hermione crossed her arms across her chest, finding the floor particularly interesting. More interesting than the fact that she wasn't sorry at all.

"Just look for one," he repeated, and his shoulder made too much forceful contact to be an accident as he pushed his way down the hallway.

Her nails cut into her bicep, and she swore she heard a pop near her ear. The front door shut with a click, and suddenly Ernie was in front of her, his shoulders low.

"I'll look for it, Hermione," he said softly. "It's fine."

"No, I will," she huffed. "I'm pretty sure I saw something of the kind the last time I looked through, anyway." She exhaled sharply, lifting her head and looking at Ernie. "Any sign of Michael?"

Ernie pursed his lips, shaking his head once. "Nothing."

Michael hadn't been in Gringotts when she went through every single body rendered unconscious. But he hadn't shown up at Dartford, or anywhere for that matter, either. It was almost worse than finding him dead.

"He's just stressed, you know," Ernie said after a moment. His Hufflepuff nature shone through for a moment, his honey-colored eyes melting as he extended kindness that only he could. "And tired."

"I'm well aware," Hermione answered. "I'm also aware that he's never short with me unless something else is bothering him."

Ernie frowned. "Like what?"

Hermione sighed, her eyes drifting over to Luna. She was already asleep, the light of the fireplace gleaming against her curly, blonde hair.

"I don't know," Hermione said finally. "Maybe Malfoy."

It could've been plausible. None of them had seen him since he was propped up against a pillar at the bank. As far as she knew, only Kingsley was aware of where he was, and even the of the content of their conversation. It was guesswork, trying to figure out the reason he had suddenly dropped off the face of the planet. But in all her years of friendship with Ron, she'd never known him to care much about Malfoy; the movements and decisions of Draco Malfoy rarely crossed Ron's mind, even during sixth year.

The first time she saw Malfoy again was purely by chance. She was walking out of the kitchen, a long piece of parchment in her hands on entirely too many wards that _might_ be beneficial for protecting Gringotts (she had half a mind to just make one up herself – something that prevented someone with a Dark Mark from coming in one hundred meters of the building), when she looked up, shock flitting through her at seeing him standing in the doorway.

He looked even worse than the last time she saw him; like he hadn't slept in days. He held his suit jacket limply in one hand, his white shirt wrinkled and not even buttoned all the way. There was a small bruise alongside his jaw, days old and light green, doing no favors for his complexion. He slowly shut the door behind him, leaning heavily on his grip to the knob.

"Malfoy?" she finally croaked out, stopping in her tracks.

"Evening, Granger," he rasped.

"What…where have you been?" she fumbled.

He held the tip of his tongue between his teeth, a ghost of a smirk barely passing through his lips.

"Out."

Hermione shifted nervously on her feet. What did that mean? Out? Out on business? _Passed_ out? Her stomach threatened to drop to the floor, and she held her breath; if she held her breath, it wouldn't. She couldn't be _worried_ for him, could she?

"Did…" she licked her lips, her mouth refusing to work with her. "Did they—"

"Sorry, Granger," he sighed quickly, crossing the hallway and heading for the stairs. "Would love to chat, but there's business to attend to."

He disappeared up the stairs before she could stop him.

As it happened, there _was_ business that Malfoy had on his docket. It was the equivalent of a probationary meeting. The next morning, Hermione walked into the kitchen to see Ernie and Ron sitting at the table; an uncustomary sight since the battle at Gringotts. She froze, her plans to make a couple cups of coffee forgotten.

"Did something happen?" she blurted. With Ernie's hand supporting his chin, nothing to say at the tip of his tongue, and Ron appearing more awake than she'd ever seen him so early in the morning, it was the only logical jump to make. Her chest tightened, fearing the worst.

"We have a meeting with Kingsley," Ron said shortly.

Hermione frowned. "Without Malfoy?"

"He's coming later."

That wasn't right. They always had Malfoy in the meetings; even if it took him until ten o'clock at night to show up, they always waited for him.

"What's going on?" she asked slowly.

Ron breathed deeply through his nose, settling back into his chair and folding his arms. Ernie quirked a brow, then rolled his eyes and dropped his hand.

"Malfoy is suggesting that the Order use dark magic."

Hermione was sure she heard him incorrectly. "Excuse me?"

"I said what I said."

Her mouth dropped open. "You can't be serious."

"He's serious," Ron grumbled. "Malfoy is too."

"Macmillan! Weasley!"

Kingsley's voice never failed to surprise her, making her flinch as it boomed through the house. Ernie and Ron both stood, failing to look her in the eye as they walked out of the kitchen. Hermione didn't even watch them go; she stared straight ahead, their now empty chairs bewildering her.

Dark magic? What was he playing at? Her body moved of its own accord, her hands reaching toward the table for support. Why on _earth_ would the Order use dark magic? It didn't make sense. It was completely against everything she – everything _they_ – stood for. Hermione searched for some explanation in the grains of wood, any logical thought sifting through her fingers like sand.

After an hour, Hermione began to pace. She gnawed at her lip so much it started bleeding, the taste making her sick, but she didn't care. She was waiting for him to show up, because the only way to make sure of his intentions was to ask him. Question him. She felt her blood beginning to rush in her ears; if his reasoning was even _close_ to sinister…

But how could it not be? Using dark magic was the highest form of corruption for a wizard, a life sentence of malicious intent and cruelty behind every spell, regardless of its true nature. Malfoy wanted them corrupt; he wanted them to destroy themselves from the inside out. She cursed under her breath – how could she have let herself _trust_ him for a second?

When the front door finally opened, Hermione skyrocketed from the kitchen, meeting him at the middle of the hallway. He froze at her sudden approach, blinking once in recovery.

"Why?" she hissed out.

He sighed, his chin jutting outwards as his hands fell at his sides. "Why what?" he drawled, his gaze very nearly approaching disdain.

"Dark magic?" she shot out, her eyebrows raising. "Are you serious?"

She saw him bite the tip of his tongue as he tilted his head ever so slightly. "Yes," he finally said slowly.

"Are you daft?"

He frowned, leaning against the wall and crossing his arms. "No," he said haughtily, the tone she hated most filling his voice; that pompous, arrogant tone that implied that he didn't think he was better than everyone, but that he knew. "I don't consider myself to be."

"I think you are," she growled.

"Do you intend to attack my character all day, or can I go?"

Something in her snapped, her ears popping. "It's completely against our morals!"

He smiled callously. "And here I thought you wanted Death Eaters to rot."

"Believe me, I'll see it done," she threatened, daring to advance toward him.

His mouth turned downwards, a false pout as he examined his fingernails. "You won't if you don't use dark magic."

"Even if we _wanted_ to, do you really think anyone here has the capacity?!"

He waved her off, rolling his eyes. "They exaggerate. Do you really think _I_ have the capacity?"

Hermione balked, staring at him incredulously. He raised an eyebrow at her hesitation, clearly expecting a response from something she knew to be plainly rhetorical.

"Do you really want me to answer that—?"

"Forget I asked," he said impatiently. He pushed himself off the wall, opting to stare at the floor. "I stand by what I said. You won't win without it."

"We have before!"

"Look where that got you." He gestured around them, breathing out a humorless laugh. "I wouldn't call this successful in the slightest."

"What would you know about success, Malfoy?"

It was out before she could stop herself. Her eyes widened, completely in shock at what she said. Malfoy cocked his head sharply, his jaw clenching. Hermione wished she hadn't said it; for once in her life, she plainly saw every though that crossed his mind, and she hated every moment of it. She saw his Dark Mark, his mother, the Vanishing Cabinet, Crabbe, everything that she was sure he ever regretted in his life, only because it was regret that suddenly filled the space between them, the word exiting his mouth with the near stagnant breaths he took. What was worse, he watched her as if she had stunned him, his eyes slowly clearing at the realization of the blow.

He hadn't expected her to say anything of the kind. Out of all the moments that he had her pinned, could read her as easily as a children's book, _this_ was the one where he hadn't at all.

"That was low, Granger," he finally said, his voice barely above a whisper. "Even for you."

Her hand had found its way to her mouth, covering it as if it could take back what she said. Her heart beat frantically against her chest, trying to run from the slow tendons of disaster that were dangerously close to crushing her from the inside out.

"I'm sorry," she breathed out between her fingers. "I didn't mean it."

He shook his head. "Don't lie to me."

"Malfoy—"

"You're the only person I've ever met that means what you say. Every time."

Hermione couldn't count on both hands how many times she had said something she didn't mean. There were too many instances, too many times she had spat something horrid to Harry and Ron, and they were people she cared for. But it didn't matter. It didn't change what he thought; she could argue with him until her face was blue, and it wouldn't change his mind.

Malfoy scoffed lightly – it could have come off as a pitiful laugh in any other situation. Hermione was sure he'd continue staring at her disbelief, but his head twisted, and she followed his gaze to see Ernie standing at the bottom of the stairs, biting his lip awkwardly.

"He's ready to talk to you," Ernie supplied, throwing his thumb behind him.

Malfoy had already schooled his features again, but he straightened still, sniffing as he squared his shoulders. "Just Shacklebolt?" he asked evenly.

"And Ron," Ernie said casually, walking fully into the hallway. "They know where I stand on it."

Hermione entered a staring contest with her feet as Malfoy's shoes tapped against the floor and up the stairs. She refused to look up as she heard Ernie approach her, even when his legs entered her field of vision.

"So…" he sighed out. Hermione squeezed her eyes shut, willing him away, but she should've known that he wouldn't take the hint. It was Ernie – kind and observant to a fault, Ernie. He tapped at the back of her hand, and she cautiously looked at him from the corner of her eye.

"Hey," he said. "You could've said a lot worse."

Hermione winced. He did hear.

"How so?" she said quickly, intent on getting rid of him.

"Well, you could've rubbed it in his face. Doubt it would've been pretty."

Hermione smiled despite herself. She turned fully to face him, licking her lips. "Where do you stand on it?"

Ernie exhaled, his mouth forming into a small 'o' as he opted to watch the wall above her head. "He has a point," he finally admitted.

"Seriously?"

Ernie shrugged. "Can't win if we're dead, can we?"

Hermione bit her lip, reopening the wound from before. That much was true. They wouldn't win if they were dead. And if the Death Eaters killed them, but they didn't kill Death Eaters…

Their numbers were small enough as it was.

Hermione groaned, her hands lifting to cover her face. "Do you trust him?" she asked hesitantly.

Ernie was silent, and she peeked between her fingers to see him frowning at the floor, considering the question. His mouth opened and closed as he thought. "He can be a prat," he said finally. "But I don't know. You have meetings nearly every day with a guy, where he lays out every secret of his allies, and it's kind of hard not to."

Hermione huffed. "Why can't I?" she whispered. Any louder, and it would've been closer to a whine.

It was a moment where she found appreciation in Ernie, as he watched her contemplatively. He was blunt, never beating around the bush when he spoke. If she had asked Luna, she might have smiled dreamily, comforting her by saying that she would, in time. If Ginny were there, not missing and intending on staying so, she would have scoffed, rolling her eyes and asking why she would even want to.

And Harry. She missed him. He would know what to say, he always did – that Malfoy was brutish, wicked, _especially_ to her, and that she shouldn't trust him as far as she could throw him.

But Ernie only threw up his eyebrows, his smirk wide and knowing. "You do. If you didn't, you wouldn't know that what you said hurt him. And…" He leaned in slightly, as if he was telling a secret.

"You wouldn't feel bad about it, either."

Hermione stared up at him, barely able to process what he said. He pursed his lips, shrugging again with one shoulder.

"Have you had lunch yet? I'm starving."

He left her side, meandering into the kitchen. Hermione stood rooted to her spot, suddenly frightened at the thought that she not only trusted Malfoy, but that she was upset that she had gotten under his skin.

* * *

There was a tentative allowance of dark magic after the meeting. "It is not your first course of action by any means," Kingsley lectured, eyeing them all individually. "But if it's a matter of life and death, I would much rather have you alive than one of them."

Hermione doubted it would come to use at all. Luna fidgeted in her chair at Kingsley's words; Hermione had never seen the girl hurt a fly. Even Ernie looked a bit green at the thought of flinging the Killing Curse at someone, despite his support of the motion.

Hermione knew she couldn't do it. She had horrid actions in her past – her parents still haunted her dreams, suddenly turning in their seats as she raised her wand to cast the memory charm and shouting protests and insults and I-can't-believe-you's until she crumpled to the floor of her home and wept. But she knew that she wouldn't even be able to raise her wand, knew the words would never come close to itching at her tongue. For all the times she wished that Death Eaters and sympathizers would drop dead, she was never the one making it happen.

Ron was silently fuming as Kingsley explained the motion, his cheeks beet red and blistering. After Kingsley dismissed them, he rocketed from his chair, causing it to scrape against the floor as he stalked out of the kitchen. His loud stomps threatened to shake the entire house, and the slam of his bedroom door actually did, causing a hanging mug to fall from its handle and crash into the floor.

Ernie whistled lowly. "I think that one was my favorite," he mumbled.

"I'll talk to him," Luna sighed. Hermione's head snapped up at the girl's distant voice, but she was already halfway out of the kitchen, her ponytail barely containing the wild, blonde curls that seriously required maintenance. She felt Ernie's eyes on her as she followed Luna's back into the hallway, and she bit her lip.

When did Luna talk to Ron after his stints of anger, and not her? She tried to pinpoint when he had shut her out; she wasn't even sure if he had. She was never privy to many of Ron's thoughts and feelings, only because he wore them on his sleeve – there was never a need for questions or a talk. Even their kiss was something they never spoke of, before or after. It was just something that was expected, something she knew would happen.

In fact, it was probably better that Luna went instead of her. The reason she _stopped_ talking to Ron was because it often turned into a shouting match; they both were prone to shooting insults they didn't mean, and generally disagreeing about the simplest things. And without Harry…

Hermione sighed. Without Harry, she wasn't even sure if Ron would be her best friend. It took so long for him to come around, even with her incessant need to be included.

So why was it bothersome that Luna could talk to Ron and not her?

"I think Malfoy is coming by today," Ernie said, jolting her from her thoughts. He stood from his chair and placed his hands on his hips. "You know, if—"

"I haven't come up with an apology," Hermione interrupted. She sat back in her chair, picking at her fingernails. "I'm sure he wouldn't listen to me anyway."

As it turned out, Malfoy made it clear that he didn't want to see her at all. She never knew when he was in the house. Hermione spent days sitting at the kitchen table, waiting. Daphne's book, _Spells for the Learning Healer_ , remained unopened in front of her as she stared ahead at nothing, her ears straining for the subtle click at the front door. When that didn't work, she moved to the living room. Luna would join her sometimes, and Ron even less so. When Ron _was_ there, Hermione always opened the book, trying to ignore the way the other two's elbows brushed together as Luna went through the last of collectable belongings of Grimmauld Place.

Even with all the time to think, Hermione couldn't come up with any sort of respectable apology. It was so strange to even think about it – apologizing to Malfoy. If you had asked her a year ago, a _month_ ago, the idea would have been impossibly farfetched. _He_ should be the one apologizing to her.

Hermione tried to fish for the puzzle she started at Hogwarts, but the pieces were all scrambled now. She thought about the first time he called her a Mudblood, how weak it made her feel, but the memory was scattered after everything. He had saved them, saved _her_ , twice now. Everything was different, like Malfoy was pouring more jigsaw pieces over her head, taunting her to try to understand him now.

The only thing she could pinpoint was exactly why her words had cut him so deeply. He was a Slytherin; aside from the righteous cockiness that seemed to bubble through every Slytherin student she knew, they above all valued ambition. They strived for success. She was absolutely sure that she had struck Malfoy's most sensitive nerve; that despite all his efforts, all his cunning, nothing he set his mind to ended up the way he wanted. It was perhaps the only clear understanding she had of him now: an extreme dislike of failure.

Hermione shook her head at the thought. She was no Slytherin, but it'd be a lie to say she didn't share the sentiment.

Her final move was to sit at the top of the stairs, waiting for the meetings with Kingsley to end. She didn't even bother to bring her textbook with her. She would just sit until her shoulders ached, her lower back screaming against her impressive ability to slouch. She would bring Mutt sometimes, allowing him to perch on her knee and watch her endlessly. She wrote letters to Hannah, long scrolls of parchment about healing, and would tie them to Mutt's leg with careful precision.

But after too many instances of Kingsley's office door swinging open, Ron frowning down at her in confusion as he went down the stairs, Hermione was convinced that Malfoy was simply throwing himself out a second story window, if only to avoid her. She exhaled forcefully through her teeth, holding out a hand for Mutt to crawl into as she stood.

"You'd want an apology, wouldn't you?" she asked the owl.

Mutt blinked once.

"What would you know about it, anyway?" she continued tiredly. "You're an owl. And I'm not driving myself insane over this."

Hermione didn't know why it bothered her so much. Ernie's declaration of trust made sense at first, but she wasn't so sure now. Trust didn't imply guilt. When she retreated into the kitchen again, all intentions of apologizing fading away, she could only think about the wound on her cheek. Malfoy had healed it. She didn't know why. It was by all accounts a random act of kindness, something that any normal human being would do.

Maybe it was just that she saw him as that now. A human being.

Even as she made peace with the fact, she didn't expect to see him any time soon. Which was why when she walked into the kitchen to see him there, she nearly jumped out of her skin. It was an unusual hour; Malfoy nearly always came to Grimmauld Place at night, but the sun had barely begun to rise. He was sitting on top of the counter, his elbows against his thighs. His fingers were splayed across his face, a position Hermione knew all too well.

Something wasn't right.

Before she could even open her mouth, he dropped one his hands, opening his eyes to peer at her. Her chest suddenly felt constricted, like her ribs were squeezing against her lungs, preventing her from breathing.

"You're here," she gasped out. Her mind screamed at her: _'You're here'?! That's the best you can come up with, you bint?!_

She didn't know when the little voice in her head started to sound like Malfoy, but she didn't particularly enjoy it.

"I have to see Kingsley," he said shortly.

Hermione fidgeted nervously. "Did…did something happen?"

His other hand came from his face, his fingers twisting together in front of him, but he seemed to change his mind, his hand snapping up again to press against his lips.

"Roldophus is dead."

Hermione balked. "Really?"

"And some ten other Death Eaters," he continued. He finally looked at her. "Yes, really."

Hermione knew him to be careful with his words. Whenever he spoke, it was planned. But he was also quick, so quick that she usually didn't notice. Hermione frowned at him; he was being careful now. Too careful.

"Why isn't that a good thing?" she asked hesitantly.

His shoulders lifted as he breathed deeply, and he wasn't looking at her again.

"They were on a stake out. Nothing really important, but—" he shook his head, waving off whatever he was going to say. "One person came back early. Told us they were ambushed."

"A survivor?" Hermione shot out.

Malfoy nodded.

"But…ambushed? We haven't been searching for stake outs recently," Hermione said knowingly. "Who did it?"

He wasn't looking at her. Malfoy didn't avoid eye contact. Why wasn't he looking at her?

"He said…" he started pointedly, his tongue running over his top lip at a pause. "That she had red hair."

Hermione's stomach dropped. No. _No._

" _Ginny_?" she whispered harshly.

Malfoy pushed himself off the counter, his shoes slapping against the tile. "I can't confirm it," he said detachedly, like it was some analytical study, an assigned Ancient Runes translation. "But I wouldn't be surprised."

Hermione's chest stuttered, and she instinctively pressed against her heart, willing it to slow down. "It can't be," she said quickly. "She wouldn't. Why would she…?"

She looked up at Malfoy, her mouth halting at his sudden proximity. He watched her intently, eyes like molten silver burning through her.

"Why?" she repeated.

He shook his head, his shoulders shrugging lightly. "People change when something's taken from them."

Hermione knew all too well. She lost who she used to be after her parents, and she wasn't sure she'd ever find her again. Now, everything was shifting around her; without Harry, she felt like she was dust drifting through wind, being pulled in every direction without a concept of which way was right. Nothing was the same with Ron, like there was a part of them missing. Even Malfoy, after watching his mother die, did the unthinkable: changing allegiance and betraying everything he was raised to be.

"They motioned for Dolohov to be accompanied by guards last night," Malfoy continued.

"Because…because of the curse?"

He hummed an affirmative.

"Do you think he's in danger?" Hermione asked, her questions coming out panicked and shaky.

"I signed off on it," he admitted. "If I were her, I'd go after him."

It made sense. Which was why she suddenly stepped forward, thinking only of the green flash of light skyrocketing toward Harry. Coming from Malfoy's wand.

"Are _you_ in danger?"

Malfoy paused briefly, and then he smirked. It was cocky, a smartarse pull of his lips.

"Granger, I am a member of a homicidal social group, and I consistently betray their trust to their largest source of enemies. I'm _always_ in danger."

Her mouth dropped open at his candor. "You have to be protected! It's obvious she won't want to be found, you have to—"

"I can't get a guard, Granger. They don't know I killed him."

"One of us, then!" she argued frantically. "We'll go with you—"

"Like an Order member would make it a meter onto Malfoy property."

"Something!" Hermione shouted. She threw her arms outward in exasperation. Why was he fighting her over this? "I can't believe it," she continued, reigning in her anger slightly. It was so much all at once. Ginny was okay. But she wasn't.

Malfoy studied her, biting the tip of his tongue.

"Wouldn't you want to kill me?"

Hermione froze. She _had_ wanted to. Of everything that crossed her mind immediately after Harry's death, the most common was how exactly she'd do it. She would have waited until he left Kingsley's office, sneaking behind him as he approached the front door and slamming his head against the wall, twisting him as he fell so he could face her as she killed him. It was the only time she ever imagined being behind the wand, a Death Eater at her mercy. Now, the thought terrified her.

She met his eyes, aware that he had some inkling of her thoughts, as he always did. Her shoulders lowered – he didn't look angry, or even disturbed. She didn't know if it was the sunlight finally blearing through the windows, casting an orange halo around his figure, but he looked _softer._ The hard angles of his face weren't visible anymore; his pale complexion glowed, healthier with the sun's rays. There wasn't disdain or judgement or irritation plainly painted on his face. Instead, there was acceptance. Understanding.

"You haven't been around," she said gently.

He inhaled sharply, taking a step backwards and breaking eye contact. "I tend to avoid people who hurt my feelings," he answered noncommittedly, as if trying to downplay how much it affected him.

Hermione sniffed, gathering everything she had in her. She had no plan; she wasn't like him at all. She didn't have any clue of what to say. But she'd say it.

"I am sorry," she started.

He pressed his lips together, turning his head even further from her.

"I'm sorry for what I said," she repeated earnestly. "I didn't mean it. Even if I had, it was horrible to say. You do know success. I've seen it."

His jaw clenched, and she tore her eyes off him, forcing her voice to remain strong.

"And I'm sorry that…th-that the most important things to you have been…" Her mouth fumbled against her. She clenched her fist at her side. "I'm sorry you had to take the Mark. I'm sorry about your mother, that you even need to be here."

When she looked up at him again, his eyes were closed, his brows furrowed. She felt like her mouth was running, unable to stop. "I just…" she half-whispered. "I hope you know that anyone would have acted the same. Anyone would have played the cards _you_ were dealt in the same way."

He twisted sharply. "Even you?" he asked lowly.

Hermione swallowed.

"Without question."

She heard his breath shudder as he exhaled. He dropped his head, the corners of his mouth turned downwards slightly as he shook it.

"You should never apologize to me," he finally said. She saw his neck bob, and he looked up at her; it was clear as day that he was trying desperately to school himself, to appear as impassive as he always was.

Hermione allowed herself a small smile. _His eyes are beautiful_ , she thought. Like melting icicles that hung from rooftops. Like the slightest greying of sky just before it rained.

"Debtors can be forgiven, can't they?" she asked quietly.

Malfoy didn't move. Even as a door on the second floor opened, Kingsley's voice calling down the stairs for him, he barely breathed. He slowly started to pass her, but paused by her side, his arm brushing against her shoulder ever so slightly.

"You'd be the first," he murmured.

Hermione didn't turn around as he walked out of the kitchen. But she did watch as the sun finished rising, not fully convincing herself that the warmth in her was from its beams alone.


	7. Chapter 7

* * *

7

_"So the whole war is because we can't talk to each other."_

_Orson Scott Card_

* * *

"You're lying," Ron said, backing into the floor to ceiling bookshelf that rested against one of the walls of Kingsley's office. His eyes darted throughout the room, as if searching for a shred of doubt in any of them. "Ginny would never do that," he insisted, his voice shaking.

"Have I lied to you about anything, Weasley?" Malfoy drawled, throwing up his hand with some flair.

"I'd say so."

Malfoy rolled his eyes. " _Recently_."

"I'm starting to suspect that _yes_ , you have _recently_ lied to me," Ron snapped.

"Ron, it makes sense," Hermione said tentatively. She took a step towards him, her hand itching to grab his, but she quelled the urge. "Why else would she leave?"

"There are plenty of other girls out there with red hair," Ron argued. He was grasping at straws, his eyes wide in disbelief.

"I don't know any," Ernie muttered.

"Shut it, Ernie," Ron said. " _I_ know plenty."

"Like who?"

Ron squirmed, weight shifting between his feet as his mouth gaped open.

"I said shut it, Ernie!"

"I'd actually prefer it if you kept your antagonistic personality to yourself as well, Mister Macmillan," Kingsley said tersely.

Ernie recoiled, frowning incredulously. "What did _I_ do? It's quite obvious it's her!"

"Is there any way you can confirm this person's identity?"

Kingsley ignored Ernie to address Malfoy, leaving the Hufflepuff to cross his arms and stew, muttering under his breath about something involving "antagonistic personalities" and Malfoy (to which Hermione tended to agree). Malfoy's nose twitched and he exhaled evenly, his lips closing around the air and directing it upwards toward his hair.

"I could question him again, but I doubt his story will change," he said quickly.

Kingsley shuffled through the long scrolls of parchment at his desk, his forehead furrowing. "What if we targeted your stakeouts again?"

Malfoy frowned at the floor before twisting, nearly pushing himself off the edge of the desk to look at Kingsley. "Those haven't been successful," he said carefully, an eyebrow raising. "Someone could get hurt."

"Disillusionment Charms exist, Mister Malfoy."

Malfoy remained immobile, and Kingsley sighed, leaning forward. "It wouldn't be an attack. We would just be out there ourselves, waiting to see if she shows up."

"You can't go to every one," Malfoy said sharply. "They'd find out, and it would be _my_ arse."

"I'm quite aware that your _hide_ would be in jeopardy, as you consistently remind me nearly every time we speak," Kingsley enunciated.

"I thought you enjoyed the reminder," Malfoy taunted, a smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth.

Hermione's hand rocketed to her mouth as she let out a giggle, but she failed to stifle it. Malfoy's gaze flicked to her, and he fully grinned. She only met his eyes for a second though, throwing them down to the floor immediately. What was that? Malfoy wasn't _funny_.

"What if it is her, then?" Ron asked. His hands were fisted at his side.

Kingsley considered him. "We'll take her in."

"As prisoner?" Ron's voice nearly broke. "She's not some Death Eater."

"Ron—" Hermione begged.

"She's my _sister_."

"I haven't said anything about imprisonment," Kingsley said shortly. "If it is truly her, she is a danger to herself and others."

"You just got done allowing us to use dark magic!" Ron shouted. "Maybe it's good that she's killing them! She'll get rid of them faster than we can!"

"Ron," Luna said quietly. Hermione jumped as she crossed the room to him, gently taking his hand; she had nearly forgotten that the girl was there.

"Ginny can't be doing this by herself," Luna continued. "She'll get hurt. We have to help her."

Hermione blinked, watching them. Ron's eyes softened and his shoulders lowered as he pressed his lips together, never taking his gaze from Luna's face. She swallowed, her heart suddenly painfully aching against her sternum, like someone had burned her raw from the inside, and she tore her eyes away, instead catching Malfoy staring at them as well. He sat back, his eyebrow arching with interest. And with a casual whisk of his irises, he was looking at her again. With more interest.

Hermione wrenched herself even further away, opting to stare at the office door.

"I'll confirm all the stake out locations," Malfoy said lowly. She heard him stand from his leaning place at the desk. "I'll owl them to you."

"Thank you," Kingsley grunted, distraction already filling his tone. He was constantly pulled in other directions; it was a wonder he kept everything straight.

Hermione felt Malfoy's eyes on her as he shifted, and suddenly felt _empty_ at their absence when he passed her by, his head low and shoulders hunched as he sauntered out of the office. Ernie followed after him, and Hermione quickly stalked out herself. She didn't want to be alone with them. She didn't know why.

It was ridiculous to try and understand, as well. She had more important things to worry about; the kitchen was now a small factory, _her_ factory, repurposed as a potions lab. Hermione didn't know when Daphne could afford to send more healing supplies, and she didn't want to find out when everything ran dry. With the war escalating, they couldn't afford to be caught off guard. Hermione slaved over her old potions textbooks, her hair undeniably more frizzy after hours of standing over a boiling pot. The only time she _wasn't_ in the kitchen was when she apparated to Shell Cottage with vials of newly concocted salves; at times, she even slept in the kitchen, her head drooping over her shoulder so uncomfortably that she couldn't fall asleep to begin with.

Hermione was often woken up by the others in the house, as well. Ron, Ernie, and Luna would come back late from the stakeouts, their shoulders heavy and their hands limp as they staggered into the kitchen. Hermione held her tongue when Ron tore through the box of crackers (the one they were supposed to be _saving_ for Mutt), and when Ernie almost knocked over her pot of skele-gro during one of his exasperated arguments with Luna about the breeding of poisonous ducks (Ernie was all for it, Luna strictly saw the act as cruel. Hermione agreed with the latter). Her patience was thin, but she was sure theirs was as well.

The reality of it was, Hermione felt useless even if she was making potions and studying healing magic all day. She wanted to be on the stakeouts, she wanted to be included on the strategic meetings. She knew that she didn't have Auror experience, and that her battle tactics were uninformed and frightened at best, but it didn't prevent the wrench in her gut when nearly everyone in the Order, in Grimmauld Place or otherwise, was chosen over her. She wanted to be important, and actively fighting against their enemies.

Because she still saw Harry's eyes. She still saw her parents' last smiles at dinner. She saw Padma, clutching at her sister over Lavender's body at Hogwarts, staring ahead but seeing nothing at Gringotts. There was Bill and Fleur, their plans for a family utterly halted. Mr. Weasley was still unresponsive, unable to vocalize the occurrences at Malfoy Manor.

She even saw Malfoy. She saw him trapped, standing motionless in front of her as she begged him to take her hand. She saw him in Grimmauld Place, the scent of death clinging to his person. She saw him in the main hall of Gringotts, breathing heavily against the pillar like his magic was draining by the second.

Once, when she woke up before the sun, there was a black, leather-bound book sitting at the edge of the counter. Hermione frowned, approaching it as if it was a feral cat, and her hand darted out to flip open the cover. She should have recognized it as a potions textbook first, but all that her eyes were drawn to was the scratchy "Draco Malfoy" penned in the top right corner.

Hermione never considered his handwriting before. In fact, she was sure she'd never seen it. It was slanted, the tell of a left hand, elegant, but not in the way Daphne's was. Every letter held precision, but the entire signature felt rushed, as if someone had ordered him to write it, or that there were more important things to do than write his name in a blasted book. It suited him.

She stared at the title page for a bit longer, before quickly snapping it shut with a huff. Hermione was the brightest witch of her age; she'd be damned if the only thing that got her there was reading. It felt like the only thing she was good for at times. She crossed the kitchen and grabbed a box of cake mix, ripping it open and reading the instructions, her eyebrows furrowing.

Hermione had made enough potions to last three months. It wasn't anywhere close to where she wanted to be, but it was a start. And if she couldn't fight, she'd have to find a way to help some other way. Hermione was passable at baking, but they needed _something_ , a few moments away from the rock tied to their ankles, sinking them deeper and deeper into darkness and suffocating them. It was Ron's birthday, after all.

But Luna didn't want cake, and Ernie didn't like chocolate. When she asked Kingsley, he stared at her over his towering piles of parchment, and he didn't even need to say his declination. Hermione sighed, staring sadly at the miserable little cupcake she decided to make. It was burnt at the bottom, and she was quite sure that the inside was still gooey. The icing leaned dangerously, like runs of ice cream threatening to dribble down the cone and onto your hand on a hot summer day. She couldn't even find candles. Hermione scrubbed furiously at the best plate in the house, willing one tiny speck to wash away, as if it could somehow elevate the cupcake's presentation. As she was drying, she caught her reflection in the window above the sink.

She knew she was thin. It didn't help that food tasted bland, even on the rare occasions when she was hungry. But her cheekbones stuck out much more than she remembered. Her normally oval-shaped face had a prominent jawline, and she could probably hold a clothes hanger on her collarbones. Hermione straightened her chin, brushing away a dry curl from her face and securing it in her low bun.

Her eyes were still aglow, albeit barely: it didn't help that the dark circles that surrounded them seemed permanently stamped. Hermione pursed her lips. She could live with that.

Hermione carefully placed the cupcake on the plate, wincing slightly as one side began to crumble. Her face was nearly touching the counter as she tried (and failed) to draw a lion on the plate in icing, a sad attempt at miming Mrs. Weasley's decorating skills. Finally, not at all satisfied with her work, Hermione picked up the plate and walked gingerly out of the kitchen, tiptoeing into the living room where she had seen Ron last.

The scene in the living room nearly made her drop all the wasted effort, though. She froze, her eyes widening as Ron hovered over his chessboard, his finger rubbing above his lip in thought. Across from him, Malfoy was leaning back into the couch, his arms extended over the tops of the cushions and his ankle crossed neatly over his knee. While his posture was much more relaxed, Hermione could see intense focus in Malfoy's eyes, his eyebrow quirking slightly as if he was studying her Ancient Runes work. Hermione shifted her weight between her feet, trying not to notice the cupcake further collapsing into itself, and cleared her throat.

"Ron?"

"Not now, Hermione," Ron grunted. "Busy."

Hermione huffed impatiently. He had been gone all day, and she'd been working on _this_ all day. It was like his birthday was forgotten entirely.

Malfoy swiveled his head, his chin pointing downwards as he considered her. "Don't worry, Granger. Weaslebee is just busy _losing_."

"Hardly," Ron shot out, sending a glare at the blond.

Malfoy frowned at the plate, the cupcake now more of a sad puddle left over from a storm. "I suppose _that_ would be a proper way to cheer him up afterwards."

Hermione narrowed her eyes. " _That_ is supposed to be a birthday cupcake."

Malfoy stared at her in silence, his eyebrows lifting minutely in surprise. "Have you _seen_ a cupcake recently?" he drawled.

Ron's hand darted out, his knight taking Malfoy's bishop. He sat back, a triumphant smile on his face (clearly _something_ had happened on the board that she wasn't aware of), and finally looked up at her. Hermione felt her heart deflate as his smile faded slightly. Squaring her shoulders, she held out the plate.

"Happy birthday, Ron!"

Ron's nose scrunched as he slowly took the plate. Malfoy leaned forward to make a move as Ron stared down at the mush, and Hermione bit her lip.

"Erm…thank you," he mumbled.

Hermione picked nervously at her fingernails. "It's, um…it's obviously not the best, but—"

"No, no. I like it."

She felt Malfoy's eyes shifting between the two of them. Ron placed the plate on the table – in fact, he leaned out of his way to do so – and turned his attention back to the game. Hermione recoiled slightly, looking between the plate and her friend as if there was a tennis ball being racketed between them.

"I tried to make a lion out of icing," she blurted. "Like your mum."

Ron hummed, glancing away from the board to peer at the plate.

"It's better when she does it, though," she continued awkwardly.

Malfoy was taking his time moving his rook, pressing his lips together as he stared down the board, as if he was more intent on figuring out how to disappear than anything else. Ron immediately made his own move, completely ignoring her.

Hermione swallowed. "Are…are you going to eat it?"

Ron finally looked at her again, a clear furrow of annoyance appearing on his forehead. "Maybe. Luna told me that eating sugar makes you more susceptible to Wrackspurts."

Hermione gritted her teeth. Of course she did.

"You listen to everything Luna says now, then?"

Malfoy exhaled sharply between his teeth and twisted his head to watch out the window. Ron's eyes narrowed, and he sat back in his chair, folding his arms across his chest.

"Perhaps I do."

"I just think its funny that you would be the first to call her 'Looney' after she said something like that."

"Are you sure I'd be the first? I think you've beat me to it a couple times."

"Saying something like that is imbecilic! There's no proof!"

Malfoy whipped back to the conversation, his eyebrows at his hairline. "Granger…"

"Don't tell me you don't think so too, Malfoy," she growled, fixing him with her best stay-out-of-it grimace. Malfoy balked, blinking once in what she assumed to be his closest expression of surprise.

"You know what I think," Ron said haughtily. "I think you're jealous."

Hermione's mouth dropped open. " _Excuse_ me?"

"This is exactly like the time you sent canaries on my head because I was snogging Lavender."

"Do you _see_ any canaries?!" she shouted.

"I'm sure you'd take the time to conjure some."

"Don't talk to me about jealousy, Mister 'I Think My Best Friends Like Each Other So I'm Abandoning Ship'!"

"That's not why I left!"

"Then don't _assume_ that's why I'm angry with you!" Hermione stepped forward, taking advantage of his sitting position to stand over him. "Sorry that I wanted some common courtesy for—"

Hermione looked down. Her train of thought completely vanished.

"Ron, you're in check," she said quietly.

Ron's eyes widened comically, and he nearly snapped his neck to look at the chessboard. As his eyes scanned the pieces, she was sure she could see steam blowing out his ears.

"You cheated, ferret," he hissed, looking up at Malfoy furiously.

Malfoy blinked innocently. "I did no such thing."

"You didn't even tell me I was in check!"

"Ron, you can get out of it," Hermione said gently. It was unprecedented, for Ron to be in check, but she was sure he could wiggle himself to safety. "You know that you're in check now."

But Ron didn't say anything, and Malfoy held more than his usual air of superiority. Hermione watched them anxiously, suddenly aware that she was missing something.

"You walked into it," Malfoy chided. "Check mate."

Hermione stared dubiously at the chessboard. There it was. The piece she missed: Malfoy's queen, almost glinting in the fireplace glow, and preventing Ron's one chance for escape.

Ron lost.

"Ron…" she said softly, her hand reaching for his shoulder.

Ron wrenched himself from his chair and stalked out of the living room. His feet pounded up the stairs, and a house-shaking slam of the door rattled her bones.

Hermione stood shellshocked, staring after his retreat in some sort of haze. When Malfoy began picking up the pieces, the soft clink of wood awakening her, she turned, frowning at him unapprovingly.

"You had to beat him on his birthday," Hermione accused.

"I hardly think it's much better than arguing with him," Malfoy said calmly.

Her stomach sank. She glanced at the cupcake, now finished self-destructing.

"I was just trying to give him a gift," she said softly. She folded her arms across her chest, now ashamed of her flareup.

"Well, if its any consolation, I'm sure _Looney_ will be giving him a nice one."

Hermione whirled, only to see a shit-eating grin plastered on his face. If she needed any more confirmation on the implication, he had the audacity to wink.

"You're a prat," she hissed.

"And you're jealous," he taunted.

Hermione swallowed, frowning even deeper. "Like I'd ever admit that to _you_."

Malfoy shrugged, the corners of his mouth turning downwards. "Don't need to. You're a horrid liar."

Hermione couldn't find anything to say. He transfixed her. In the glow of the fireplace, he wasn't out of place; he melted into his surroundings. His hair shone, silky and golden, and his eyes were colorless in the light. He sniffed, closing up the board and standing, suddenly making her feel very small.

"For the record," he said casually, "You can do better than Weasley."

Her heart beat frantically against her chest. Since when did Malfoy have opinions on the matter? It was too close, too close to the circle of protection she drew around herself. He was toeing it, challenging her to think beyond what was safe. It was a Slytherin thing to say, ambitious to think beyond what she had always known to be her place. By Ron.

Hermione never had the courage to think like that.

"For the record," she said breathily, "I have potions to make."

He smiled, and it made her stomach do stupid things. Like twist. Like flip. Like flutter. It wasn't even a _nice_ smile, more of one dripped in victory. Hermione turned on her heel, desperate to make sure he wouldn't cross her circle, and stalked to the kitchen.

* * *

Hermione knocked on Ron's door later that evening. When he didn't answer, she knocked again, a little more fervently, much to her distaste to admit.

"Ron?" she called softly, hoping he could hear through the door.

She nearly fell in when he opened it. Her hand shot out to support herself on the doorframe, and her head landed squarely against his chest for two seconds before she righted herself.

"Sorry," she said quickly.

"'S fine," he returned. He remained impassive, his hand clenched around the doorknob.

"What did you need?"

Hermione nearly held her breath; her pride was strong, even if she knew she had to do this. "I'm sorry," she blurted.

Ron cocked his head.

"I'm sorry that I got mad at you today," she continued. "I just wanted to do something nice for your birthday. Everyone made it very clear they didn't want cake, and I was just thinking that you would, but then you didn't, and I just felt so useless—"

"Hermione, it's fine."

"It isn't! I shouldn't have taken anything out on you."

"What were you taking out on me?"

Hermione stopped, shaking her head. "Nothing."

"'Mione."

Hermione sighed. She crossed her arms and bit her cheek. "It's stupid. But I want to be out there with you. I don't have anything important to do, and—"

"Wait," Ron interrupted, holding out his hand. "Hermione, you're the _most_ important. Who else could make potions? Who else could help us heal? You're literally _saving_ Dad. How is that not important?"

"I don't know," she admitted. "I'm just…"

She threw her face to the ceiling, willing everything Gryffindor. "What happened to us?"

Ron drew back. "Us?"

"You're my best friend. We do everything together. And…I don't know."

Ron sighed. "Is this about Luna?"

"No!" Hermione exclaimed. "Merlin, no. I want you to be happy and if she…" Hermione trailed off. She knew she wasn't making any sense. But everything was bubbling up inside her. Was it jealousy? She just wanted to help him again.

"I don't want to lose you too," she admitted quietly.

She looked down at the floor, aware of the silence between them. Ron shifted, and suddenly his hand was at her chin, lifting her head to look at him. Hermione blinked. There was nothing. No twist. No flip. No flutter.

"You won't lose me," he said. "I promise."

She breathed out a laugh, her face splitting a little cruelly. "Don't make promises you can't keep, Ronald."

He rolled his eyes. "I'm not. You're my best friend. Nothing will change that."

Hermione sniffed, pulling away from his hand. "I'm sorry I'm difficult to talk to," she mumbled.

It was Ron's turn to laugh. "I'm sorry _I'm_ difficult to talk to."

She giggled, covering her mouth with her hand. When she looked up at him again, though, she was serious. "You know you can. Talk to me."

"I know."

She placed her hands behind her back innocently, but her grin was devilish.

"So…Luna?"

Ron scoffed and rolled his eyes, but his lips curled ever so slightly. "Stop. You're turning into Ginny."

His face went slack at her name. Hermione watched as he suddenly became faraway. She touched his shoulder gently, imploring him to look at her.

"We'll find her," she said determinedly.

Ron nodded, but she knew he didn't believe her. Ron always wore his feelings on his sleeve, after all. Hermione sighed, patting him once more and stepping out of the doorway.

"Happy birthday, Ron," she said quietly.

"Thanks," he murmured. "And thank you. About Ginny."

"Of course."

* * *

April came with tension. Besides the stakeouts and a few skirmishes, there wasn't anything concretely warlike. Kingsley was certain that the Death Eaters were planning something. Malfoy's intel was scattered; his knowledge was limited, outside of whispers among ranks. Hermione suspected it had something to do with the failure at Gringotts, but Malfoy didn't confirm anything. But he was agitated, that much she could tell; his jaw was always taut when he walked in, his teeth grinding as his gaze threatened to kill on the spot. Once, she chided him that he'd ruin his teeth if he acted that way. He kindly told her to piss off.

So, not in a good mood. Not in a good enough mood to thank him for his potions book, at least - it was doubtful that he was ever _truly_ in a good mood. Hermione would read in the living room, her watch magically set to vibrate when her concoctions were ready for the next ingredients or stirs. Most of the potions in the book, she had never heard of, and most weren't exactly helpful for healing. But she came across one.

The reading described it as a type of pain-relieving potion. It was specifically used to satiate the effects of the Cruciatus Curse; it wasn't an antidote, but it could slightly alleviate the more serious results of prolonged torture, like shaking, or memory loss. Hermione was ecstatic at first: it could be something to treat Mr. Weasley, to help him into some semblance of normalcy. She thought about Neville's parents, how it might possibly help them as well, even a little. As she continued to read, she was confused as to why St. Mungo's never used the treatment.

But then she read the ingredients. While mostly similar to a calming draught, there was one thing that made Hermione's blood run cold: unicorn blood.

She snapped the book shut immediately. It was dark. The amount of unicorn blood needed for the potion was miniscule, barely a drop, but the side effects could be severe. It took her an entire hour of gnawing at her lip before she finally opened the book again, quenching her need to know just how a patient would react. She only found two sentences.

_The side effects of treating a witch or wizard with this potion – specifically the potential toxicity of small doses of unicorn blood over extended periods of time – are largely unresearched. There are no official recordings of patient outcome after drinking._

Hermione huffed. She'd read enough textbooks to know what they meant. It was the long way of saying, "We have no idea what would happen." The side effects were unknown.

She felt torn. She wanted to help Mr. Weasley; all of her previous attempts to heal him failed before. He would eat, he would sleep, but other than that, he was a shell, a ghost that sat at the edge of his bed, as if he had lost the will to haunt. She knew that none of the Weasleys would approve. But she couldn't let it go.

"Malfoy," she called, once she had heard his footsteps making a hasty retreat to the door. She waited as he shuffled, and he appeared in the doorway, impatient as ever.

"Yes?" he shot out. "I have places to be, Granger."

"What do you know about this potion?" she asked, ignoring his mood. She slid the book over the counter, stretching herself between holding it open and stirring the cauldron in front of her. Malfoy crossed the kitchen, taking the book aggressively. His brow furrowed as he read, and she watched his right hand trail down the page, the Malfoy ring on his forefinger leading him through the passage. When he finished, he looked up plainly, all expression gone from his face.

"It says that no one knows about it. Why would I?"

Hermione shrugged. "It's your book."

"I'm aware."

She rolled her eyes. "I thought you might have some insight. Dark magic, and all."

He studied her carefully, and he closed the book as he set it down. "You want to brew it," he said simply.

"I didn't say that."

"You're thinking about it."

Hermione pursed her lips, throwing her eyes to the boiling, greenish stew. "I believe Mr. Weasley has largely irreversible effects of prolonged exposure to the Cruciatus."

"As would anyone."

"I'd like to do something about it, regardless of your comment."

She looked at him primly. It was like staring at a cliff face. His eyes were stormy, dark grey rolling in like she imagined a tornado did. His chest heaved, and he looked at the book again as he thought, his hand coming up to rub over his mouth.

"Only you would attempt to cure the incurable," he muttered.

"Would you do it?" she asked, surprised at the strength in her voice.

"Of course I would," he said, straightening. Hermione opened her mouth, but he leaned in, obviously with more to say as his eyes glinted.

"Just not on my father."

Hermione closed her mouth with a snap. "Good to know," she said slowly.

"You know what does help?" he asked as he turned on his heel.

Hermione's ears perked. "What?"

He threw a sly grin over his shoulder. "Tylenol."

* * *

She crushed the pills into Mr. Weasley's pudding the next time she was at Shell Cottage, muttering to herself about snakes and their devious ways as she did so. Hermione didn't even know why she was trying it. How would Malfoy know about a Muggle drug to begin with?

She still waited for longer than she should have, though. Her leg bounced as she sat straight as a pin on the couch, and she stared ahead at the beach, imagining kites and her mother's sun hat flying through the wind, lost forever to the waves. Hermione jumped at the sound of creaking floorboards inside the house, and she raced to the patio door and wrenched it open, only to freeze within the entrance.

Mr. Weasley was walking. Shuffling, limping, but walking. Hermione clapped her hand over her mouth, and Mrs. Weasley turned in confusion, her dish and rag forgotten in the sink. Hermione only pointed.

Mrs. Weasley swiveled, only to gasp, drawing back and then flinging herself toward him. She cupped his cheek, standing on her tiptoes to reach him.

"Arthur?" she gasped out, her voice watery and shaking.

Mr. Weasley smiled. Lopsided, crooked, but smiled.

* * *

It was only her and Ernie in the house a few weeks later, and Ernie was Merlin knew where. Even Kingsley made the trip with Ron and Luna to see Mr. Weasley, stepping away from his office if only briefly. It was late, and Hermione was trying not to nod off at the kitchen table. She had a potion that needed stirring clockwise in ten minutes, and she couldn't afford to miss it because she couldn't keep her eyes open.

A crack in the hallway made her flinch fully awake. Before she could even grab her wand, Malfoy appeared, sagging against the entrance frame. He was out of breath, his eyes wide, and his hair flipped in every direction, as if he had just gotten off a broomstick.

"Where's Shacklebolt?" he asked breathily, fighting against his chest. "I called an hour ago."

"He's at Shell Cottage, visiting…Malfoy, what is going on?"

She stood from her chair, gripping her wand tightly and fearing the worst. Malfoy approached her, his movements so quick she didn't have time to step away, and suddenly he was towering over her. His hands floated around her shoulders, like he wanted to touch her, wanted to _throttle_ her, and he looked so panicked she was sure that the Death Eaters had somehow found Grimmauld Place, and that they were on their way here.

"You need to get your parents out," he enunciated, like she somehow wouldn't understand him.

She didn't. Everything had drowned out, the roar of blood rushing to her ears submerging her. She saw pictures fading, the back of her parents' heads still and true under the aim of her wand. But then they turned, they yelled at her, they didn't leave—

He touched her. His fingers were light, barely brushing against her shoulder, like the breeze of a butterfly beating past. She was above water, everything hazy, but _he_ was there.

"Granger," he said gently.

"What?" she rasped.

"Where are your parents?"

She hadn't talked about them in a year. No one talked about them. Why was he asking? She wobbled and fell back into her chair.

"They're in Australia," she said quietly.

"How long have they been there?"

His questions shot through her. He had to stop.

"Granger."

He repeated her name. She was the only one left. She lifted her chin, acknowledging him slightly.

"Are there records of them being there?"

"Stop asking," she said softly.

He stilled above her. She closed her eyes, a headache threatening to split through her skull. She heard a chair screech against the tile, felt him sent down next to her.

"What did I say?"

Her heart nearly broke in two. She wasn't sure if it was because her eyes were closed, but he sounded…concerned. Like he had hurt her somehow. Her brow furrowed, and she let out a harsh breath, trying to find any bearings.

"There aren't any records," she strangled out. "My parents don't exist."

A wave of clarity washed over her. She opened her eyes, taking a deep breath and staring ahead. Shutting everything out.

"I obliviated them," she said.

Malfoy was unmoving next to her. She didn't dare to look at him even when he did move, sitting back in his chair as if deflating. She didn't expect him to say anything. But he said the only thing she wanted to hear.

"Smart."

No one had told her it. No one had assured her that she did something right. Even Ginny had looked at her in shock, and her eyes never settled on her the same way again. Hermione was alone with the war, with the consequences of sending them away without knowledge of a daughter. Her body trembled, letting out a sigh of relief.

Malfoy rubbed at his eye, weariness anchoring him next to her. "They've made a motion to go into Muggle London," he said carefully, avoiding her gaze. He was pausing, she knew it, deciding on whether to go further.

"Your parents were named," he said lowly.

Hermione straightened, attempting to square her shoulders. "That house has been empty for a while now. They won't find anything."

Malfoy nodded, dropping his hand. "Good."

Her eyes trailed across his face, catching lines that angled him, lines that softened him. He looked older than eighteen, she realized; he carried everything with him. She could see it now, even if his thoughts were a mystery to her. How sometimes his shoulders slouched, despite all the pureblood training. Every once and awhile, his fingers would shake slightly, as they were now. He would touch the scar on the back of his head, as if reminding himself that it was there. Even the Mark, always hidden under sleeves, screamed against him. Seen even when invisible.

"Why did you tell me?" Hermione asked suddenly.

He looked up. He was biting the tip of his tongue. "You would have found out," he said simply.

"From Kingsley. Not you."

She counted ticks on her watch. The waiting game with Malfoy was familiar.

"I wouldn't wish it on anyone," he finally said.

She could see his mind whirling, scanning through memories she didn't know, but ones she knew were similar to her dreams, the thoughts that jumped from behind the curtain at the worst times.

"Not even me?" she asked. She allowed a small smile.

"Not even you."

Her smile faded, and she sighed, studying the table. Without thinking, she fingered at a stain of sweat, the corner of Harry's shoulder blade immobilized there forever. Luna had tried, scourgified the entire kitchen, but everything was still there. Sometimes she got used to it, being in the kitchen for so long, and the guilt ate at her slowly.

"Is it wrong that it was right?" she asked quietly.

Malfoy sighed, placing his forearms on the table and staring out the bay window. "I would have done it," he answered.

Hermione glanced at him in the corner of her eye. It was the same thing she said after finding out about the Dark Mark, his mother. She would have done it too. And somehow, she wasn't surprised at all.

"I know," she said.

"But then again," he nearly scoffed, throwing up his eyebrows. "I'm not exactly the poster child of good."

Hermione frowned. "I didn't ask that, though."

He considered her, his eyes slightly narrowed. "Right isn't always good."

Hermione sighed. "I tried everything," she said, hating the warble to her voice. "I shut myself in Ginny's room, and I tried everything. But there's nothing. And I hated it for so long, and now I find myself glad that there's nothing. I couldn't have done it again."

She paused and pressed the back of her hand at her eye, forcing the burn away. "But I feel guilty for thinking that way."

Malfoy suddenly leaned forward. "What if you could?" he asked hesitantly.

Hermione twisted, her reverie suddenly dispelled. "What?"

"There's a way to restore their memories," he continued. "It's complicated, and it's not done often, but—"

"No."

Malfoy blinked. "No," he repeated flatly.

"I don't want to hear about it," she said louder. Her chest tightened, and she felt her lungs quicken, like they were struggling to work.

"Granger—"

"I don't want to know, Malfoy!" she shouted, pushing herself up and away from the table.

Malfoy lifted his hands in surrender and sat back in his chair. "Alright," he said tersely. "I won't tell you."

Hermione glowered as he stood and buttoned his jacket with a free hand.

"Don't come to me when you _do_ want to know, either," he said snidely.

"I will _never_ ," she seethed. "I'd rather be alone than let them live in a world that hates them."

Malfoy tilted his head as he straightened. She didn't know when it happened, but his eyes were colder; they stabbed through her like ice.

"I don't blame you," he said. "It's hell."

She folded her arms across her chest, but she couldn't help the softening of her glare as he retreated. She scoffed, turning her wrist only to outwardly groan: ten minutes had long passed. Her feet were heavy as she returned back to the cauldron, promptly dumping its contents and scourgifying her workstation. As she started another batch, her mind wandered, considering a world that hated _him_ as much as it hated her.

* * *

Kingsley paced throughout the kitchen, his purple robes billowing behind him and flapping with every twist of his feet. His fingers flexed and unflexed at his side, his forehead furrowed deeply with wrinkles Hermione was sure would stay permanently, after everything. He didn't look at any of them directly as he stalked through the kitchen, his gaze directly towards the floor, his feet.

"I'm putting a stop to everything," he finally said, his voice clear and yet dangerously close to anger. Hermione shifted nervously in her chair, unfamiliar with any emotion being properly expressed by him.

"Everyone will take stations throughout Muggle London," he continued. "No Death Eater can set _foot_ into the territory."

"We can't possibly cover all the ground," Ernie said hesitantly.

"Do you have a better idea?" Kingsley snapped.

Ernie drew back slightly, his shoulders deflating, and he threw his reddening face downwards.

"There has to be another way," Luna said timidly. Her fingers were lost in Mutt's feathers as he cowered into her neck, scratching him with more force than necessary in an attempt to stifle her nervousness.

Hermione bit at her lip and brought her hand to her cheek as she leaned forward to rest against the table. "They don't expect their movements to be secret for long," she inferred. "If there's even a slight chance of this getting out, they'd _want_ us to be in London."

Hermione scanned the room, searching for a spark of recognition from any of them. "They could track us back to our safehouses. Even if we prevent an attack on the city, they'd still be able to gain from our efforts."

Kingsley let out a loud scoff, shaking his head. "I will not let them terrorize innocent people," he argued.

But his eyes were distant, and his hand came up to pinch at the bridge of his nose. Hermione wet her lips, her shoulders tensing at the potential choice they'd have to make: could they prevent the suffering of millions, at the detriment to themselves?

"What if we attacked their stakeouts?" Ron suggested. He was staring at the table, the thoughtful draw of his eyebrows reminding Hermione of when he played chess. "They can't pillage London when they're too busy fighting us off."

Hermione spared a quick glance at Malfoy. He was leaning against the doorframe, his hands in his pockets like they were conversing about restaurants to visit for supper. Kingsley halted his pacing, a single eyebrow raised as he looked at Malfoy.

"Draco?" Kingsley called gently, and Hermione stuttered at his first name. Malfoy blinked, lolling his head to one side as he considered the suggestion.

"It's not a bad idea," he relented.

Kingsley sighed, lifting his chin. "You'd be putting yourself at risk."

Malfoy's head turned, his expression cold. "Let them see what happens when they accuse me of being a rat."

The air in the kitchen was stagnant. Hermione was reminded of exactly how much she didn't know about him; the power he had to shift the entire war on a whim. How he could blow up an entire building, and send a fleet of Death Eaters straight to the ground with a flick of his wand. She shifted nervously in her chair, uncomfortable with not knowing what occurred on the other side, what _he_ did on the other side.

"And your allies?" Kingsley questioned further.

Malfoy didn't break eye contact. But she saw his jaw clench minutely, his throat bob, a fraction of stiffening shoulders. Hermione couldn't get into his head – not like he could with her, much to her chagrin – but she knew he'd do anything to protect the people he was close to. That he had done many things already.

"They'll be fine," Malfoy said shortly, his tone dismissing the topic.

Kingsley hesitated only a second longer, watching Malfoy doubtfully before facing the rest of the room again. "We'll attack at the same time," he ordered. "I need everyone out there. We'll set up a camp for Miss Granger and Miss Abbott to heal as needed."

Hermione's ears perked, and she straightened her in chair. Her insides swelled, like the petals of a flower in spring. Ron gave her a small smile, and he leaned forward to pat her on the shoulder approvingly.

Kingsley started to exit out of the kitchen, his head hung low as he continued to plot. "Boys, upstairs. We'll reconvene after the details are solidified. And Mr. Malfoy…"

Malfoy arched an eyebrow, refusing to look up from the floor.

"Do everything in your power to stall them," Kingsley said lowly. "I don't care what it takes."

Malfoy smirked, slow, close-lipped, and cunning. He reached into his jacket to pull out his wand, and apparated out of Grimmauld Place with a crack.

* * *

Counting was something her father used to do. His bookshelves would hold the same number of books, he always knew when a spoon was missing, and she had witnessed numerous times when he would count teeth while working, even though he could tell by a glance that the patient had the right amount. It calmed him; Mum told her once that he still got nervous before surgeries, even with his experience and the advances in anesthesia, and counting was just something his mind wandered to, and comforted him.

Hermione counted too. But it wasn't calming. She counted when she was nervous, and it made her more nervous. She would forget what number she was on, and she would start over. Even after counting the same thing twenty times, she was sure she was forgetting something. It didn't help that her life was surrounded by numbers – two best friends, four Hogwarts houses, seven Horcruxes, three Hallows, hundreds of Death Eaters, fifty-eight (and counting) deaths – and that the _good_ things that surrounded her often dwindled to nothing. Her numbers always changed, bringing unsteady ground that she struggled to stand tall on.

She counted every single vial and jar of potion or salve before placing it in her bag, and then she brought everything back out to count again. Hermione was bringing everything, and she couldn't shake the feeling that it wasn't enough. She kept thinking that the bottles would break on the way, that she wouldn't be able to find the Dittany, that one of the last times she was out there, in the field, her best friend died.

Hermione stood in front of the bay window, watching the sunset against the houses behind theirs. The windows flared with red, orange, and blinding white, setting everything on fire as the very top of the sky darkened. She challenged the sun, staring at it for as long as she could before she saw spots, and then she would blink at the purpling clouds above, squinting to see the faint ghost of the moon, the tiniest of stars blinking behind the waves of yellow. They were Gryffindor colors, the sun itself turning a royal red, roaring silently over the rest of London.

Her mother loved to sail; every summer, they would go to the sea, and she would grin faintly at the horizon as she spoke, more to the water than anyone else.

_"Red sky at night, sailor's delight, Hermione."_

_"What's that mean, Mummy?"_

_She didn't answer for a moment. Her hair, nearly black against the wash of color, blew quietly over her shoulders, the normally silky and straight locks curling slightly at the ends, flyaways frizzing over her forehead. Her mother sighed deeply, her contentment radiating throughout the boat, as if nothing could be better than that moment. Even as she turned to look at Hermione, it was clear she was tearing her eyes away from the world, like it would disappear if she didn't watch it._

_Her mother smiled, and reached to cup Hermione's cheek, her soft fingers fiddling with her earlobe._

_"It means good days are coming," she said softly._

Hermione wasn't a sailor. Her mother tried, of course, but the knots confused her, and no matter how much research, how much time she spent studying the subject, it never came easily. She could ace the test, but in the moment? Hermione was more content with sitting in the bow, marveling how everything could be so big. She wasn't a sailor by any means, but she couldn't help but feel that the red sky was for them tonight. That good days were coming.

There was long and pale blonde hair in the corner of her eye, and Hermione sighed, tearing her eyes away from the sunset to see Luna. Her powdery blue eyes were tinged with orange, a sunset in themselves. She lifted her chin, still engrossed with the window, before finally turning to meet Hermione's gaze.

"Everything okay?" she asked.

No. But it would be.

"I was thinking about my mother," Hermione said. She felt something release in her, another stone of the wall around her parents crumbling like sand.

Luna smiled gently. "So was I."

Hermione smiled. There was no one like her. Even as she turned to look out the window again, she felt Luna's presence, calm and comforting. Like counting.

"We'll be okay, Hermione," she said quietly.

As the red sky turned purple, then blue, then black, Hermione felt like she could agree.

* * *

Hannah was pacing back and forth in their tent, nibbling at her fingernails and watching her feet. George and Angelina were outside keeping guard, the latter having sat down against the outside of the tent, extending her leg and massaging it lightly every once and awhile. Hermione offered a pain-relieving potion, but Angelina declined, stating that it would make her head fuzzy. "And I have to be alert," she said, grinning despite the situation.

All in all, they hadn't gotten as many visits as Hermione expected. With the amount of stakeouts they were attacking, she thought that the tent would be rolling with Order members, making her and Hannah's healing remedies rushed and ineffective. Ernie had come early, dizzy and bleeding from the side of his head, the blood dark against his dirty blond hair. He was rambling the entire time Hermione worked on him, and she was almost afraid to send him out again, but he insisted on leaving.

"I hit my head on a rock," he mumbled, his speech slurred. His eyes were far away as his head leaned precariously on his shoulder, the only support he could muster as she cleaned the wound.

"Bloody Death Eater threw me back," he muttered with distaste.

"Is everyone else alright?" she asked, attempting to make her tone casual. It scared her that no one had come, and she was convinced that there were piles of people she cared about being stacked to the sky.

"'Dunno," he shrugged, apparently dedicated to being unhelpful. "Seem to be."

Hermione bit her lip, turning to the table behind her to grab a vial of Dittany. "This will sting, Ernie," she mentioned as she popped the cap, but he gave no indication that he heard her.

"I killed someone," he said quietly, as if saying a prayer.

Hermione froze.

"Neville was on the ground," he continued, "I couldn't…"

Hermione reached out to hold his chin, tilting his head so the gash faced upwards. Her mind had wandered to it often; what would it take for them to do it? She tried to put herself there, seeing someone being approached by the enemy, and found herself rooted to the ground, time stopping. She wasn't sure she could bring herself to do it; Hermione dismissed the dream entirely, afraid to acknowledge what would unfold.

"You did what you had to, Ernie," she murmured.

He stayed motionless even as she poured the Dittany over the wound.

Hannah was fitful afterward, as if the possibility of Neville being attacked was bubbling inside her. When Padma came with a large cut that tore through her bicep, Hannah immediately jumped to her aid, raking through potions and hovering around the other girl like a hummingbird. Now that Padma was gone again, she was increasingly fidgety, the slightest pop of a twig sending her straight to the entrance of the tent.

"He'll be alright," Hermione said as it happened again. Hannah was crestfallen, and she wasn't sure if it was because he was or wasn't there.

"He's stupid sometimes. You Gryffindors," Hannah scoffed, running her hands down one of the plaits hastily pulled on the side of her head.

Hermione's lips pulled into a small smile. It was an accusation she was familiar with.

"He'll be smart for you," she decided to say, and Hannah blinked, a wash of gratitude coming over her features. She opened her mouth, but immediately snapped it shut as she jumped at a loud crack from outside, too loud to be from a twig. Hermione rocketed from her chair, joining Hannah at the entrance of the tent.

Ron was stumbling toward their wards, hazy behind the fog of magic and carrying someone in his arms. As he emerged through the wall, sending ripples through the barrier, Hermione recognized the long, curly blonde hair.

"It's Luna," Ron strangled out, darting past all of them to set her on the table in the middle of the tent. "They hexed her or something, she's not responding to me."

Hermione and Hannah took either side of the table, casting glances between themselves and Luna. Her eyes were closed, nearly the picture of sleep outside of a slight furrow to her forehead. Hannah lifted her wand, the blueish-green circle of a diagnostic spell emitting immediately and traveling up and down Luna's torso.

"I don't know, she's—"

"Death Eater approaching!" Angelina shouted.

Hermione twisted, stalking toward the entrance of the tent. She just caught the blinking of nearly white hair as Angelina lifted her wand, gritting her teeth and taking aim.

"Wait!" Hermione yelled, grabbing Angelina's arm and ripping it downwards.

Malfoy looked shellshocked. Even from the distance, his eyes matched the paleness of his skin, wide and nearly too big for his sockets. What made her heart stop though was the blood. It was bright red against his cheek, smeared like war paint, and it continued onto his jacket, drying into a gigantic, rust-colored spot onto the black ensemble. It was all over his hands, staining the Death Eater mask he held limply at his side.

"Come," he said, and his voice shook. He stared at her like she was the only one there.

"Malfoy—"

He grabbed her hand, and her stomach lurched, the world spinning and melting into itself. She felt his grip disappear, and she was suddenly face first in the ground, grass blades threatening to touch her tongue. She could faintly hear spells whizzing around trees far away, and she squeezed her eyes shut, groaning as she shifted her arms under her and tried to find purchase. Before she could right herself, Malfoy was snaking around her shoulder and pulling her up, taking her wrist and leading her quickly through the forest. Blood squelched and slid onto her, dampening her skin.

"What—?!"

He practically threw her forward, and her hand shot out against a tree to prevent from landing on the ground again. She looked down, to her horror, to see a motionless body at her feet. There was a large piece of shrapnel lodged in their stomach, the dirt below them pooling with blood.

Hermione recognized his hair. Curly, mousey brown, not unlike her own.

Theo.

"Help him," Malfoy rasped behind her. "Please."

Hermione kneeled, casting a diagnostic spell over Theo's stomach. "Go back to the tent," she ordered, refusing to let her voice tremble. "I need you to get gauze and Dittany."

A distant explosion made her jump, and she twisted to look behind her. Malfoy was staring at the shrapnel, and she wasn't sure he was even registering her at all.

"Malfoy!"

He flinched, blinking up at her, and he flicked his wand, shrinking into himself with a pop. Hermione turned back, her eyes darting over the rest of Theo's torso, hoping that Malfoy would be smart enough to be quick. She tentatively touched at Theo's shirt, the material cold and drenched with blood, and she waved her wand over the shrapnel, slowing the bleeding as much as she could. The air snapped behind her, and Malfoy appeared across from her, carrying as much gauze and Dittany that his arms could handle.

"I've slowed the bleeding, but we have to act quickly so I can cancel it. The spell can't act for long periods of time," she rambled, more to herself than Malfoy. "I need you to help me," she said, looking up at him as confidently as she could muster.

Malfoy's chest heaved. She bit at her cheek as he placed everything at his side – _too slow, too slow, Malfoy_ – and he gripped his wand tightly in front of him.

"Tell me what to do," he nearly whispered, refusing to look up at her.

"You need to _accio_ the metal out. I can't close the wound with it there."

She steadied herself above Theo, pointing her wand downwards above the shrapnel. "Ready?"

Malfoy swallowed, and nodded once.

"Now."

" _Accio_."

The shrapnel wrenched itself from Theo's stomach with a sickening squish and flung into Malfoy's hand. Hermione immediately pressed her wand into the gaping hole that remained, whispering to herself as she felt the fat, the muscle stitching between itself again, until all that remained was a large surface wound barely visible underneath the tear of clothes.

"Dittany," she said coldly, and Malfoy thrust it into her hand. It sizzled against the blood, a small wisp of steam emanating as the gash shrunk.

"Get the gauze ready." Hermione sliced her wand through the air, tearing Theo's shirt and pulling it open. "Lift him, and I'll wrap."

As she tucked the end of the gauze between itself, Malfoy sat back, his shoulders dropping considerably. Hermione scratched at her nose with the back of her hand, her mind still analyzing over Theo, and she waved her wand over him, cancelling the slow of his heart.

"He needs blood-replenishing potion," she said lowly, her throat too tired to support her voice. "We'll take him back to the tent."

Malfoy looked up sharply, his eyebrows raising. "Are you sure?"

Hermione frowned. "Why wouldn't I be?"

"He's a Death Eater."

Hermione paused, and she lifted her chin, blinking determinedly. "He's helped us, hasn't he? Helped you?"

Malfoy didn't answer, and Hermione stood, her knees popping as she straightened, and she wiped her hands on her jeans, reddening them with marks she wasn't sure would come out. "Come on," she said. "Let's go back."

Angelina glared over Hermione's head as they crossed the wards, sending daggers at Malfoy's face behind her. Hermione brushed past her, walking into the tent as George held a flap open only to see Ron still there, sitting his head in his hands next to the table. Luna was still unconscious, and Hannah had her back turned to the entrance as she sifted frantically through the vials they had set on the counter.

"Hermione's back," Ron called loudly, and Hannah turned, her eyes wide. Hermione gestured to her side for Malfoy, indicating for him to place Theo on the other table, and quickly joined her by the potions.

"Where's the antidote for poisons?" Hannah asked, her voice shrill.

"It's not here?"

"I've went through everything twice. I can't find it."

Hermione's eyes darted through the labels. She grabbed one filled with blood-replenishing potion and turned, throwing it to Malfoy. "Give him that," she ordered, watching as he barely caught it before turning back to their supply. Her hands dove into the rows, lifting glass and discarding it on sight alone.

"Is she poisoned?"

"It's the only thing I haven't tried."

Hermione grimaced, and kneeled under the counter and cast a dim _lumos_ over the dusty area. There was a glint behind one of the legs of the counter, and Hermione bent her head to stretch towards it, her fingers catching on a rounded surface. She pulled out the vial, and immediately handed it to Hannah.

"Here."

Hannah whisked away, and Hermione stood, afraid to turn around and watch. She held her breath as Hannah uncorked the potion, lifting Luna's head to pour it into her mouth. Without thinking, she distanced herself, cataloguing everything as work, Luna as a patient. Hermione couldn't focus any other way; her mother had been the same. The person on the table wasn't a person, but a subject. She felt faraway, like she was in a dream, barely a specter as everyone rushed around her.

Hannah cast a diagnostic spell, and they waited. But there was nothing.

"Shit," Hermione muttered.

Hannah deflated, her wand dropping to her side. Ron leaned further into his hand, rubbing against his temple as he rested his elbow against his knee.

"What happened to her?"

Hermione twisted. Malfoy had cautiously approached, an eyebrow raised thoughtfully.

Ron glanced between all of them, as if asking for permission as his mouth fumbled open. "They hexed her."

Malfoy's silence was doubtful. "You're sure?"

"Sure _looked_ like it."

Malfoy held the tip of his tongue between his teeth as he tilted his head. Then he looked at her. Hermione blinked, instinctively drawing herself up at his gaze.

"Could be belladonna," he said softly.

Hermione narrowed her eyes. "That can't be."

"What's that?" Ron asked confusedly.

"Belladonna causes hallucinations, delirium. Does she look momentarily crazy to you?"

"It does that when _ingested_ ," Malfoy drawled, as if schooling a three-year-old.

"Guys—"

"How else would she have come into contact with it?"

"Hey!" Ron shouted, throwing his hands outward and causing both Hermione and Malfoy to begrudgingly glance at him. "Is anyone going to tell me what you're talking about?"

"Deadly nightshade," they both deadpanned. Hermione rolled her eyes, and she was sure that Malfoy had done the same. She quickly turned back to him, placing her hands on her hips.

"Besides, belladonna is a poison. The antidote would have cancelled it."

Malfoy huffed. "It's a poison, yes, but it's certainly not a common one. That antidote won't do shit."

"And the delirium?" she continued to interrogate.

"You know, there's not a single use for everything," Malfoy chided, his lips pulling into a cruel smile as he shook his head. "If someone had the barmy idea of eating it, of course they'd go insane. But if someone _inhaled_ it…"

Malfoy shrugged, throwing his left hand in the air like his line of reasoning was perfectly sensible. "I wouldn't be surprised if a Death Eater ground up the seeds. It makes your enemies fall into a death-like sleep." He threw up his eyebrows, his mouth still partially opened as he thought. "Until they actually die."

Hermione recoiled. "How can you tell when this happens?"

"You can't." Malfoy approached the table, scanning Luna as he did so. "But I'd bet anything that it did."

Hermione went slack. She fell into the counter behind her, her hand gripping so hard at the edge that her knuckles turned white.

"Is there anything we can do?" Hannah asked quietly.

Malfoy inhaled deeply. "I can brew an antidote," he said, finding Hermione's eyes again. "But it'll take time."

"How long?" Hermione shot out.

"Days."

"How long does she have left?" Ron strangled out. His face had lost all color, the red of his hair washing him out.

Malfoy went to scratch at his cheek, pausing only as his fingertips touched the blood still painted there. He drew back, staring at his hand for a second too long before swallowing, steeling his features.

"It varies. No one really knows."

Hermione hissed through her teeth, closing her eyes as she deflated completely against the counter. She didn't want to hear that. She didn't want to hear any of it. Her brain threatened to split her head down the middle, weariness falling like deadweight attached to her limbs and sinking her deeper underwater. Hermione didn't have the strength to struggle against it; she almost relished in the feeling of pressure suffocating her, the helplessness of being able to do nothing all-consuming.

There was movement at the entrance of the tent, and George stuck his head in. "Kingsley called. Said the Death Eaters are retreating. We can leave in an hour."

It didn't feel like victory. Hannah slowly turned to the counter, gathering vials one at a time and placing them in Hermione's bag. Ron stood, standing over Luna and hesitantly pushing a strand of hair from her face, tucking it behind her ear.

Malfoy retreated, turning his back to them and approaching Theo once more. "I'm going to the Manor," he said, and Hermione lifted her head, more out of courtesy than in actual understanding of his words. "Tell Shacklebolt I'll owl."

Hermione didn't know what prompted her. But she quickly walked towards him and grabbed his wrist, pulling and forcing him to face her. "Wait," she said, and she looked up, a sudden tension in her chest at how close he was. Her fingers felt electric against his skin, her nerves alighting all the way up her arm for no reason at all. Malfoy didn't sneer at her; his face was unreadable, even as his eyes began to clear.

"Are you alright?" Hermione asked. Her tongue felt clumsy.

She expected him to draw away, to glare at her gall for touching him. But nothing was there but exhaustion, the dark circles that surrounded his eyes reminding her of the holes that her friends would cut into sheets to be a ghost for Halloween.

"Yes," he said simply.

Her eyes wandered to the blood on his clothes, his cheek. "The blood?"

Malfoy's throat bobbed, and it almost appeared that he would look away. Her stomach flipped when he didn't.

"It's not mine," he murmured.

Hermione nodded, tearing her eyes away and slowly letting go of him. She felt his absence even more than his presence, like she was missing something by releasing him. Malfoy continued to watch her – his gaze was overwhelming, solitary and focused on only her – and she swore that he stepped toward her minutely, that his hand jerked forward, near hers, once more.

"I will finish the antidote as soon as I can," he said lowly.

Hermione nodded, hoping that she looked up at him gratefully. "Thank you."

Malfoy paused, seeming uncertain. "I'm repaying a debt, Granger."

She lifted her chin defiantly. "Thank you," she repeated.

For the tiniest second, Hermione swore she saw relief flash behind the grey. It was gone in an instant, replaced by nothing but a wall, a dense cloud of fog, but she had already committed it to memory; she was sure she didn't imagine it. Malfoy finally shifted away from her, turning to Theo and picking him up, his head hung low as he exited the tent.

* * *

Ron was with Luna every second he could spare, and when he wasn't, Hermione took up the task. She'd often go at night, when the boys were having their meetings with Kingsley. She didn't know what Ron did to spend the time, but Hermione found herself talking to Luna, even though she wasn't sure if her words were registering through the girl's coma. More often than not, it was her own ramblings, much of which didn't make sense as she vocalized them.

"That potion I was telling you about was a failure," she exhaled, and she landed in the chair set next to the bed. "The substitutions Neville suggested were ridiculous in hindsight. I'm surprised it didn't blow up in my face."

It had come close, although Hermione would never admit it, even if Luna couldn't hear her. She'd been in enough potions classes with Seamus to know when an explosion was nearing, and barely had the time to throw the contents of the cauldron out the window as they started sizzling.

"Although, I'm sure you'll appreciate this, the bushes are now turning orange where I dumped the potion. Ernie pointed it out, but I'll probably never say anything."

Hermione paused, her nose scrunching as she stared out the far window of the bedroom.

"Probably."

Luna's effervescent giggle, or the lack thereof, made the room feel empty. It was Regulus' old bedroom, stocked to the brim with books and dark, Slytherin green (albeit dusty and in bad condition to both). His notes from the previous war had been salvaged by Luna herself: parchment littered with things that, from a later perspective, held his plans to begin the defeat of Voldemort, written in code and otherwise preserved in secrecy. Hermione briefly wondered what he was like; the only traits she could gather from his belongings were the traditional values of his Hogwarts house, ones that she previously considered to be negative.

She wasn't so sure now. Hermione knew what ambition felt like; her stint with S.P.E.W. made that clear, even if she could barely bring herself to have goals for the future now. She wasn't a stranger to resourcefulness either. And cunning, well…

Malfoy proved that cunning had its merits. He weaseled his way into the Order well enough. Hermione didn't know _what_ he had exactly done to postpone or even cancel the Death Eaters' plans on rampaging Muggle London, but she could guess that it reeked of deceit.

The houseplant on the windowsill caught her attention. It was the only thing in the bedroom that was _supposed_ to be green, and it seemed to largely avoid the color. Hermione grabbed the cup on the bedside table next to her and quickly conjured some water.

"I suppose you'd chastise us for letting a houseplant die," she said distantly, as she poured the water over its leaves. "There must be some superstition to it. I guess I can play into that."

Hermione slowly made her way back to Luna's side, sitting more rigidly than she had before. She played with the cup in her hands, twisting it around and letting the last drops of water spiral from the lip to the floor. She didn't want to say her thoughts now, suddenly. Not after the turn the train had taken.

"Malfoy said the antidote should be ready soon," Hermione said carefully.

_And what else about Malfoy?_ her conscious invaded, sounding terribly like Ginny and Luna together, the tone entirely too similar to their "gossiping sessions."

Hermione huffed and bit her cheek. Even though she rambled to Luna out of some intense need to fill the silence, her dread that it would stay that way, she often picked the topics selectively. She didn't talk about Ron, for one. And despite Malfoy being on her mind more than she cared to admit recently, she refused to say a word about it.

But he was troubling her. Not because she hated him, or distrusted him, but because she didn't. Hermione replayed the moment he appeared at the tent over and over, every time more convinced that she had a twinge of concern at the blood he was drenched in, afraid that it was his. It was the same feeling she got every time Ron and Ernie walked through the front door after a stakeout, and she knew she cared about them.

But when did she start caring about Malfoy?

_I wouldn't wish it on anyone. Not even you._

She couldn't bring herself to say that he didn't deserve her worrying anymore. Not when he said something so small, something that should've been insignificant. But it wasn't. She even thought the same thing, when she saw Theo and the shrapnel lodged in his stomach.

_I wouldn't wish it on anyone._

_Not even you._

Hermione closed her eyes. She could still feel tingling in her arm, could imagine the way he looked at her. There was uncertainty, and yet understanding. She wasn't even sure if Ron understood her completely; her stomach did strange things, like lifting and dropping at the same time, like unfurling and closing as if mimicking waves on a beach, the draw and pull of the moon confusing and comforting. Hermione had very rarely encountered being understood, being seen.

She looked at Luna. Her pale hair surrounded her like a halo, her face placid.

"I wish you could hear me," Hermione said quietly. "I don't know…"

Her chest tightened, the not knowing uncomfortable, unwanted.

"I don't know what to think," she whispered.

Hermione counted the ticks of her watch. Hoped that Luna would flutter her eyes, or shakingly lift a pinky.

But she knew better. And it didn't happen.

A knock on the doorframe made Hermione jump out of her skin. She whirled – _Speak of the devil._ – to see Malfoy, standing as if out of place. He was otherwise guarded, impassive as his eyes darted between the two of them.

"Thought Weasley would be in here," he said quickly.

Hermione frowned – Ron was always in Kingsley's office before Malfoy showed up. "No, he left a couple minutes ago. They're probably waiting for you."

He stepped into the bedroom, and Hermione fought the urge to roll her eyes at his blatant misuse of time. She probably should have expected it by now; he often ran on the idea that everything revolved around him.

"The antidote should be ready tomorrow," he said. He fisted his hands in his pockets, watching his feet as he slowly approached.

"Okay. Good."

Malfoy leaned against the bedpost. "How is she?"

Hermione sighed, twisting her head to look at Luna. "She's not getting worse."

He hummed, nodding once in her periphery. Hermione dared to glance at him, and he was staring out the window. He seemed faraway; she sniffed, trying not to process the metallic fume that hung on him. He lifted his chin, his shoulders rising.

"There's another parcel from Daphne in the kitchen," he said. "Probably a lengthy letter as well."

Hermione shifted uncomfortably. It had been Luna who pointed out Daphne and Theo's closeness a long time ago, although in a passing comment within a general conversation about Wrackspurts (one that Hermione didn't exactly have the energy for to begin with at the time).

"She didn't have to do that," she responded. "It was nothing."

The corner of Malfoy's mouth quirked. "I told her you would say that."

Hermione blinked. There it was again. The lift and the drop.

She didn't know what to say. She wasn't privy to Malfoy's thoughts or nature – perhaps he preferred it that way. For some reason, though, she wanted to make him feel the same way; she couldn't return his intuition, but she could, ironically, repeat something else that Luna told her a long time ago.

"You know, Luna once said that you showed them kindness in the Manor."

His forehead furrowed slightly. He swallowed, breaking his gaze from the window and finding the floor. Hermione could hear the slight buzz and twitter of crickets outside, a small breeze finding its way to the second floor and blowing early summer into the room.

"Did she?" he finally asked.

"You don't agree."

He looked up at her, an eyebrow arched. "Would you say I'm kind?"

A long time ago, it would have been an adamant no.

_I wouldn't wish it on anyone_.

"I don't know," she admitted.

Malfoy straightened, leaving his spot on the bedpost and retreating to the door. "I'd be inclined to say you do," he drawled.

If there was one thing she could pinpoint about him, it was that he had a talent at ending a conversation on his terms. He was gone as quickly as he came, his footsteps sauntering faintly to Kingsley's office at the end of the hall. As Hermione turned back to Luna, she swore she saw a faint lift of the girl's lips – a knowing smile, even in sleep.

* * *

_Dear Hermione,_

_There isn't enough I can send to properly express my gratitude to you. I hope this captures a glimmer of it. Maybe this letter can as well._

_I know that our histories have rarely aligned. You should know that, consistently, your character has proven better than mine. I am only at a place now where I not only need, but want to speak candidly to you; your kindness has never failed, even when it should. I'm afraid that I cannot say the same of myself, and it's something I've come to deeply regret._

_I am so sorry for what I and the people I'm close to have done to you. There is no excuse. I wish I could say that the ways are changing, that more purebloods recognize the injustice they abet, but I refuse to lie to you – there are those who will fight against you until their dying breath. But take solace in that you have made allies; it will be a cold day in hell before I allow my family to speak ill of you and other Muggleborns. That is a promise._

_I wish I could do more for you, like you have for me. You have saved two of the most important people in my life; people who have spat at the ground you stand on. Thank you for helping Theo. Thank you for helping Draco. He doesn't tell me much about what goes on, both on your side and theirs. I know it must be difficult to work with him – he is a difficult person by nature, even when he isn't trying to be. But Draco requires purpose, and you have given him that. It's been a very long time since I've seen him as himself, and I know now that there will be a day that he can be again, thanks to you._

_If you require anything, please think of me. I will do everything in my power to right things._

_Respectfully, Daphne_

Hermione let the letter drift to the counter as she steadied herself. She glanced at the parcel again, not quite believing what was in front of her. She expected more healing potions. Instead, the box was filled to the brim with ingredients: abraxan hair, foxglove, belladonna, goosegrass, snakeskin. Hermione tentatively reached into the box, pulling out a small pot that seemed to thrum in her hand. She twisted it, reading the label, the handwriting the same as the letter:

_Powdered unicorn horn. Magically sealed._

It was everything she needed. Her potions would no longer be substituted, no longer a testament to her research ability over her potions prowess. All she could do was stare at the jar, nearly drooling over its rarity. She snapped back from her self-imposed trance, carefully placing the pot into the box again, and turned to the small vial on the counter, next to the parcel. The small parchment attached was much shorter than Daphne's letter, the scrawl slanted and pompous:

_Give as soon as the sun sets._

Hermione looked out the window, seeing the sun just barely dip below the trees. The sky was still light, a powdery blue at the very top that blended perfectly into the dark purple that crawled downwards. Ron would be fidgeting, his knees bouncing under his elbows upstairs. Taking one last look at the letter, Hermione held the vial a little too tightly as she exited the kitchen. Malfoy hadn't needed to tell her much about the potion – she did enough research to know that it might not work. That Luna's dreams would be too pleasant, too deep to wake from. Hermione's bottom lip was raw from gnawing all day, the possibility too painful to give credence.

But Luna's eyes fluttered open, resembling the light blue of the sky just before sunset. Ron leaned forward, snatching her hands in his own as a single tear dribbled down his cheek. Ernie whooped with joy, and even Kingsley smiled warmly; Hermione realized it was the first time she saw him smile in entirely too long. As they all stepped towards the bed, intending on crowding Luna further, Hermione took a step backwards, her hand finding the closet door behind her and steadying herself with it.

"Luna—" Ron warbled.

Luna sat up, grabbing behind his neck and pulling him into a tight hug. She buried herself in his shoulder, squeezing her eyes shut against everything else.

"I knew it wasn't real," she mumbled into him. "You weren't there."

Ron let out a sharp breath of air, his face splitting into a grin.

"Thank Merlin," he whispered gratefully.

Hermione fully pressed her back into the closet door. Even in the gloom of Grimmauld Place, there was sunshine in her, reflecting and beaming and allowing her heart to soar. She watched Ron and Luna embraced each other like there was no one else in the world; she thought about Daphne, and what it must have been like to hear about an act of kindness from someone unexpected.

Hermione wasn't sure if Malfoy was kind. But as Ron pulled away from Luna, cupping her cheek like he needed her to breathe, she realized that, if this wasn't kindness, she didn't know what was.

* * *

The combination of the fluorescent, blinking overhead light in the kitchen and the old, yellowed pages of the potions textbook made Hermione's sight blur. Her eyes hurt; every time she blinked, they got scratchier and drier, burning and craving sleep. Hermione ripped herself from the book, staring up at the ceiling with a huff. She couldn't believe herself: Hermione Granger had mismanaged her time. She started the potion too late, and now she was doomed to stay awake until it was finished. Peering into the boiling cauldron, she grabbed the ladle and stirred clockwise twice, until the liquid thinned and turned a glowing light blue.

It wasn't that she missed sleep. Hermione often found herself avoiding it. But she didn't prefer to stand in the kitchen all night – it was better as an all day event only. She sighed, pulling her curls into a loose, low bun at the nape of her neck.

"Evening, Granger."

Hermione jumped, flinging her ladle and nearly toppling the cauldron over, threatening to spill the contents all over herself and the floor. She whipped around, her bun now hanging precariously from the motion, to see Malfoy in the kitchen doorway.

"Malfoy," she gasped, scanning him from head to toe. "What are you doing here? It's late."

There was no reason for him to be standing in front of her. Everyone else was surely asleep; there wasn't a meeting with Kingsley any time soon. She couldn't help but think that something was wrong, that the Death Eaters were attacking, that he had been found out, that he was injured.

Malfoy's head lolled on his shoulder, and his eyebrows frowned comically. "Can't I just be around?"

Hermione looked at him nervously. His voice was light, nearly playful, and it was unnerving. Then, his face split into a smile, and Hermione was even more unnerved. She balked slightly, her chest stuttering at the pure joy on his face. It was a true smile, one laced with happiness, and her stomach did a flip at how his eyes crinkled at the corners.

Hermione swallowed. He was handsome when he smiled like that.

"Are you alright?" she asked slowly.

Malfoy's shoulders began to shake, and he threw his face to the ground. "I'm alright," he said between laughs. Then, as if he wasn't already acting strange, he had the audacity to cross the kitchen, and he leaned against the counter, closer than he had ever willingly placed himself to her.

That's when Hermione smelled it. Alcohol. He smelled distinctly of firewhiskey, and of something else she couldn't quite place. She took in the rest of his appearance: his white shirt was unbuttoned at the top, loosely tucked in. Even his sleeves were slightly rolled up, the bottom of the Dark Mark peeking from under the material. His hair was mussed, like he had spent the last hour consistently raking his hands through it.

"Enjoying the view?" he teased, his smile widening flirtatiously.

"Are you _drunk_?" she asked incredulously, squinting at him. She must be imagining that he was there. Maybe the fumes of working had finally gotten to her head.

Malfoy pressed his lips together, stifling another round of laughter. "Perhaps," he gasped out, and he threw his head back, his chuckles absolutely manic.

" _What_ is on your face?"

Her hand had automatically reached toward his right cheek, toward the red smear that washed the rest of his color out near the corner of his mouth, but she drew back in an instant, hovering in the space between them hesitantly. Malfoy frowned, resembling a confused puppy, and rubbed ungracefully at the mark before peering at his hand with distaste. Then, he rolled his eyes, and rubbed at the spot with more fervor.

"Pansy," he scoffed.

Hermione didn't know why her heart stopped.

"Oh."

"Get your head out of the gutter, Granger," he grumbled. "She's disdainfully affectionate, and she enjoys embarrassing me."

"I wouldn't have guessed," Hermione admitted.

He was making the smear of lipstick worse, and he was clearly getting agitated about it. Hermione much preferred him from before, nearly happy, she realized.

"Here," she said softly, and she brought her hand back without thinking. Malfoy froze as she reached toward his cheek, watching her openly, and Hermione held her breath as her fingers lightly brushed over his skin. Her heart leapt into her mouth when she saw his hand twitch upwards, toward her wrist, but he held it at his side, swallowing but never taking his eyes off hers. Even as the spot disappeared, staining her fingers, she remained too long, secretly enjoying the whir of electricity that buzzed at the contact.

His eyes dipped to her mouth. Hermione stiffened.

"She did offer, though," he said lowly, breaking the silence.

Hermione dropped her hand. "What?"

"Pansy." He shrugged, now looking anywhere but her. "It's a thing. She always offers on…"

He paused, letting out a breath of a laugh.

"…on?" Hermione coaxed.

He straightened, pulling away from her slightly and lifting his chin. "My birthday."

Hermione's mouth dropped open. "It's your birthday?!"

There it was again. His smile was wide, full, even as he looked at the floor and nodded. Hermione smacked him in the chest, receiving an affronted and surprised glare.

"Why didn't you tell us?!"

He shook his head, rolling his eyes. "I wasn't exactly charmed by the idea of receiving a cupcake from you."

"Still! We could have done something!"

His smile dropped slightly, and Hermione wished she could take it back. Maybe it was his drunken state, but she saw everything he thought: why would the Order do something for _him_?

"I'm not big on birthdays," he quietly said instead.

Hermione pursed her lips, turning away and focusing on the potion next to them, even though she had no intention to do anything with it. "Well, why not? I think they're wonderful."

It didn't have the effect she desired. Instead of smiling again, he became pensive. Malfoy sighed at the floor, his shoulders dropping considerably.

"My parents."

Hermione bit her lip and tore her gaze away from him to stare into the cauldron.

"Mum would cook," he continued. Glancing at him from the corner of her eye, Hermione could see that he was staring out the window. "She never did any other time. And my father would take me flying."

The corner of his mouth pulled upwards gently, his grey eyes faraway. "There's nothing like it," he whispered.

Hermione frowned into the cauldron. The potion needed to simmer for an hour. They had time.

"I can't take you flying," she said determinedly. "But I can do something similar."

She reached across the counter to grab her wand, and faced him fully, holding her hand out to him. Malfoy raised an eyebrow doubtfully, and she lifted her chin.

"What? You don't trust me?"

He immediately shook his head. "I trust you."

Her heart soared, and she didn't know why. "Then come with me."

His eyes scanned her face, before hesitantly placing his hand in hers. She flicked her wand, and they swirled out of Grimmauld Place with a crack.

* * *

"Granger, I'm sure you know my past prejudices have been forgotten."

He hadn't moved from the entrance of the storage unit, even as she had walked in and started pulling off the cover from the large object inside. She froze now, raising her eyebrows and glancing up at him. He looked…nervous. She wasn't sure she had ever seen it on him, but he stood rigidly, his hand flexing and unflexing as he stared at the contents of the storage unit.

"But," he said tightly, as if choosing his words carefully. "I can't help but be a bit hesitant about this."

Hermione rolled her eyes, focusing back on uncovering. "I thought you trusted me."

She fully removed the cover, revealing her baby: the silver Porche 911 Carrera that her father had given to her on her sixteenth birthday. Her father was an enthusiast of cars – while she didn't exactly share the sentiment, she _loved_ this one. Her mother had been outraged: it was an expense they hadn't agreed on, and Hermione was too young to drive at the time. But her father had only winked.

_"She'll need a car someday, Monica."_

_" This car?! It's the best one out there! She'll crash it!"_

_"I know our Hermione." Her father reached forward and cupped her cheek, elated at Hermione's shocked appearance. "She'll take good care of it. She deserves this, don't you think?"_

Hermione stepped back, drinking in the gift. She hadn't seen it for so long; she hadn't been to the storage unit where she kept all her belongings for almost two years. She wasn't even sure if she could drive as well anymore. But seeing the glint of the paint, the gleam of the new tires, she was _still_ elated. It was like she was sixteen all over again.

The alcohol must have been wearing off. Malfoy only frowned skeptically, his candor much diminished. "Don't Muggles… _die_ in these things?"

Hermione shrugged. "Only if they aren't careful." She failed to mention that they wouldn't be acting carefully tonight.

Hermione grabbed the keys from one of the shelves behind her, and unlocked the car, giggling when Malfoy flinched at the bright honk. She opened the door and watched him primly. "Are you coming?"

Malfoy huffed, and slowly approached the other side, frowning at the handle before successfully pulling the passenger door open as well. He carefully sat in the car, looking completely out of place, and Hermione couldn't help the smile that pulled over her features as she slid in as well.

"Buckle your seatbelt," she said.

"My what?"

Hermione leaned into him, ignoring the way he recoiled slightly as she reached over his shoulder to grab the seatbelt and pull it over his chest, buckling it into place with a click. "That's your seatbelt," she said matter-of-factly as she sat back.

"What does it do?"

"It keeps you safe."

" _This_ keeps me safe?" He pulled at the resin. "Granger—"

"I think this will go better if you don't ask questions," she interrupted quickly. She buckled her own seatbelt, and placed the key in the ignition, reveling in the low growl of the engine as the car started. Hermione glanced at him, pressing her lips together to stifle a laugh at his widened eyes.

"I don't think—"

"Malfoy. I promise this will be fun."

"I don't believe you."

Hermione sighed. "I'll go slow first, okay?"

Malfoy stared at her. "There's an option for _fast_?"

"Merlin, I'm just going to go."

Hermione put the car into reverse and twisted to look behind her as she backed out. She paused once they were outside of the storage unit, flicking her wand to close the door on her belongings, and then she put the car in drive, and slowly started to weave out of the area and onto the backroad.

Driving came back easily. Hermione slowly relaxed in her seat, the wheel feeling comfortable in her hands. She turned smoothly, reveling in the weightlessness of the car as she made for the motorway. But it was deathly silent, the night still and dark around them. Hermione went to turn on the radio, only to glance at Malfoy, who was gripping the side compartment so tightly that his knuckles were whiter than the rest of his skin.

"Alright, Malfoy?" she asked gently.

"I don't like this," he said quickly. Hermione turned to look at him, not exactly surprised at the greenish tint of his face.

"Shouldn't you look ahead?" he gasped out, his eyes flicking between her and the road.

Hermione scoffed. "Only you would critique my driving, when you don't even know how to."

"It seems to be common sense," he snapped.

"I _am_ certified to drive, you know. I took a test and everything."

"Passed with flying colors, did you?"

"Yes."

"Then look ahead. Not at me."

Hermione gripped tightly at the wheel and turned on her blinker to pull off on the side of the road. Malfoy inhaled sharply, bracing himself and shrinking into his seat as the car bounced against the gravel. Hermione pressed on her hazards a little too forcefully and crossed her arms in front of her chest.

"What are you doing?" Malfoy asked aggressively.

"I know that you'll like this," she answered. "I just know it. And I thought that, _maybe_ , you'd like to do something you like on your birthday. But if you don't trust me, then I can turn around."

Malfoy was quiet next to her. Hermione sighed, rubbing at her eye and staring pointedly out the windshield.

"I was going to the motorway. The motorway is fast. If you don't want to do it, I'll go back."

He fiddled with the material of his pants in the corner of her eye. The silence was eating her up.

"How much is it like flying?" he asked gently.

Hermione turned to him, raising an eyebrow. He was anxious, unsure, but she saw a hint of interest behind it. A hint that could be manipulated.

"It's better," Hermione said.

Malfoy stared at her impassively for a moment, before his nose twitched and he gritted his teeth. He nodded once, and Hermione grinned.

"I'll put the top down," she said slyly.

As the mechanical whir of the roof being opened began, Hermione pulled off the side of the road and entered the ramp, speeding toward the motorway. The engine roared underneath her, the gears shifting and rotating at her will. When she saw that no one was behind them, no one in front of them, she put her foot to the floor, the car skyrocketing ahead on the expansive, straight freeway.

She saw Malfoy grip at the console between them. But then, he leaned forward. The wind blew through his hair. She saw his chest stutter, the corner of his lips split, and then he let go, looking up and lifting his hand above the windshield and watching it fight against the rush of air. And then, he let out a laugh. It was wonderful, clear; Hermione wanted to hear it again.

"Stand up!" she shrieked against the roar of the wind.

She heard the click of his seatbelt, and glanced between him and the road to see him slowly, cautiously stand, holding onto the windshield for dear life. He looked comical up there; the wind brought tears to his eyes, his face seemed to pull back against the force, and his hair was completely plastered to his scalp.

But his smile was everything. He let out another laugh, and Hermione drank it up. As the motorway turned slightly, he lifted his hands, outstretching them from his sides and flying through the world. He let out a long whoop, and Hermione joined him, lifting her hand from the wheel and raising it above her, with him. And they stayed like that, for a moment alone and forgetful of everything around them, the stars the only witness to their happiness.

* * *

It was quiet as Hermione pulled back into the storage unit. The top was still down, their hair unkempt. Malfoy never put his seatbelt back on, although she was sure he'd claim he didn't know how. The thrum of the engine halted as she turned the key and removed it from the ignition, leaving only them together.

Hermione stared at her hands, afraid to say anything. She couldn't stop replaying _him_ in her mind; his laughter, the way he glowed against the night. Her chest restricted against her, waiting for him to say _anything_.

"Why did you do this?" he finally asked. She saw him staring at her in her periphery.

Hermione shrugged. "It's your birthday. Everyone needs something nice for their birthday."

"Why did you do it for me?" he repeated, and she heard everything between them layered underneath it. She saw him glaring at her in second year, the foul slur bouncing between them. She saw the flash of hurt on his face after she claimed he didn't know success. And she saw his debts, the ones he'd be repaying all his life.

"I-I…" she stammered, her mouth opening and closing. "I don't know."

"You do," he accused. "Don't tell me you don't."

"I don't know everything, Malfoy," she sneered.

"That's a first."

"I don't know, okay! I just…I look at you, and I don't hate you anymore. I thought you were hurt when you first came to the tent, and I was _concerned_. And it wasn't even a thought for me to help Theo, to help someone close to you. And I think about everything you've done, and I understand why."

Hermione exhaled, pressing at her temple. "It would be exhausting to hate you now. And I'm already exhausted."

Malfoy sat back in his seat. "I fail to see how me being exhausting warrants this."

"That's not what I meant!" Hermione growled. "I…"

Hermione squeezed her eyes shut. She wished she could talk to Luna. She didn't want to be sorting this out in front of him.

"I _care_ about you, okay?" she admitted quietly. "I…I see everything you've done for us. And if showing you kindness can repay that, then that's what I'll do."

Malfoy shifted, and he was leaning against the center console. Hermione looked up, facing him for the first time, and the wind was knocked out of her at how close he was.

"Listen to me very carefully, Granger," he said lowly. "You shouldn't repay me for anything. I can't imagine why you would want to. I've done terrible things to you and everyone you care for."

"Can't you accept that I've forgiven you?" she said softly.

Malfoy blinked. "No."

"Why not?! You're forgiven! I forgive you!"

"I don't deserve that!" he shouted. "The things I've done, the things I _still_ do aren't worth that!"

"What about the things you've done that _do_ deserve that?! Saving Luna, rescuing us in the Manor _and_ at Gringotts?" Hermione tsked, throwing her hands outwards in exasperation. "Did that mean nothing?"

"No," he said tightly, throwing his gaze forwards to the windshield. "But it doesn't require anything from you."

Hermione groaned. "You are so _difficult_! What about Theo, or Daphne? Can they not show you kindness either?"

Malfoy's jaw tightened as he glared out the window.

"Malfoy, look at me."

When he refused, Hermione shot out and grabbed his chin, forcing him to look at her. "You can't tell me how to feel, or where to place my forgiveness. I am _telling_ you that I care for you, and that I forgive you. Accept it."

Malfoy closed his eyes, and his hand wrapped around hers, holding it for a moment at his chin before pulling it away. Even as he placed it gently on the console and let go, his fingers continued to brush at the back of her hand, sending lighting through her. When he finally pulled away, Hermione never wished more for a storm.

"Why are you so stubborn?" he finally said.

Hermione breathed out a laugh. "Why are you?"

His lips pulled into a smirk. "I'm difficult. There's a difference."

Hermione rolled her eyes. "I know. Daphne mentioned it."

This time, Malfoy lifted his chin, his smirk turning pompous. " _I_ know."

Hermione frowned, and his smirk deepened.

"You think I didn't read the letter?"

Hermione's mouth dropped open, and she scoffed. "You prat!" she accused, smacking him against the chest. "That was for _me_!"

"I had to make sure she didn't defame my character."

"Oh, _sure_."

They left each other's proximity, sitting in silence in the dark for a moment more. She heard him shift, and glanced to see him staring at her, an eyebrow arched.

"Granger?"

"Yes?"

"It was better than flying."

Hermione smiled softly. When they got back to Grimmauld Place, he left for the Manor, and Hermione walked into the kitchen to see the potion ruined. But she wasn't angry. Even as she laid down to sleep, she was kept awake by the sound of his laughter, and the butterflies that fluttered in her stomach.

* * *

"So he held your hand?"

Hermione glared at Luna through the store shelf as she picked up a container of gurdyroot. "That was hardly the point of my story."

"But you mentioned it."

"It's not important."

Luna tilted her head, blinking her big eyes innocently. "Then why did you mention it?"

"I was trying to be consistent!" Hermione raised her voice, although a smile spread across her cheeks against her will. "I would appreciate it if you commented on something other than that."

"Okay. So he willingly entered your personal space twice within the night, and you touched his face as a result?"

" _Luna_!"

"Or would you like me to comment that you willingly left a potion to spend time with him?"

Hermione pursed her lips and tossed more ingredients into her basket, the clank a loud interruption to their conversation. "I honestly don't know what I expected from you."

Luna giggled, hiding her smile behind her hand. She tossed her hair behind her shoulder as she grabbed other ingredients from the shelves. "So you have forgiven him, then?" she said lightly.

Hermione frowned at the vial label in her hands, using it as an excuse for a hesitation. "Yes," she said slowly. "It's only logical. Since he's been helping us."

Luna hummed. "And those other things have nothing to do with it?"

Hermione narrowed her eyes as they rejoined at the end of the aisle. "Why would they?"

Luna shrugged, turning gracefully on her heels and approaching another shelf. "I think you and Draco are more alike than you admit."

Hermione raised an eyebrow, now following Luna more than actually searching for the things she needed. "What do you mean?"

"You're both very intelligent. Ambitious. Not to mention the willingness you both have to act for those you care about."

Hermione was now at a dead stop in the middle of the aisle. She stared at the floor, running through everything Luna pointed out. They were things she danced around, when she thought that she understood him, and would do the same if she was in his shoes. She never put it as plainly as Luna, and she wasn't sure she liked hearing it aloud from someone else.

"A lot of people have those qualities," Hermione said quietly.

Luna twisted to face her, an uncharacteristic quirk of her brow sharpening her features. "Perhaps."

Hermione gritted her teeth. She hated the girl's vague nature sometimes.

"What about you and Ron, then?" she asked more aggressively than she intended. "Are you alike?"

"I wouldn't say so," Luna said matter-of-factly. "But I like him."

Hermione stopped. " _Like_ him, like him?"

Luna giggled. "If you need to clarify it that way."

Hermione rolled her eyes. They approached the counter, and Luna fished for her purse, producing a small amount of galleons.

"But you aren't alike," Hermione said, a little desperate to prove some point, although she didn't know what.

"No," Luna sighed. "But I don't need someone like me."

As the cashier started to count out the money, Luna faced her placidly. "I think you do better when you have people who are."

Hermione stared at her. "People who are like me?"

Luna grinned. "Yes."

Hermione opened her mouth to argue, that she had people that _weren't_ like her, and that she was fine (even though the snide voice in the back of her head commented that she rather enjoyed the hints of understanding that Malfoy left behind), when the glass at the front of the window shattered, and a rumble that shook the entire store threw both her and Luna off their feet.

Hermione crashed to the floor, the contents of her basket opening and spilling in front of her as she let go. She scrambled to her feet, fishing for her wand in the pocket of her jeans. She turned towards the front of the store, only to whip behind the shelf closest to her as a dark, hooded figure appeared in the doorway, a spark of green shooting out from them as the wisps of apparition dissolved from their robes. The cashier collapsed behind the counter, and Hermione saw two other customers drop to the floor in the corner of her eye. She didn't know what spell hit them, but feared the worst.

Hermione immediately produced her patronus, barely a ball of light before she shouted into it. "Ron! Diagon Alley, _now_!" She flung her wand out of the shelf's cover, sending the patronus away and shooting at the figure with a wordless _stupefy_ at the same time. There was a crash of products next to them, and she saw them disapparate as quickly as they came.

"Luna!" she shouted.

"I'm here!"

Hermione left her cover, stalking towards the entrance of the store. "I'm going out! Stay here!"

She didn't stay long enough to hear Luna's response, stepping out into the alleyway that hid the store and being temporarily blinded by the sun. There were scorch marks across the brick, and Hermione darted past, running into the street.

Hermione stopped dead in her tracks. Diagon Alley was up in flames. Stores were being ransacked, merchandise thrown into the street and glass littering the sidewalk. She watched in shock as people ran in every direction, chased on the ground and through the air by Death Eaters, green sparks flying haphazardly in front of her. Dazed, she slowly lifted her wand, stupefying a nearby Death Eater as they closed in on a shopkeeper cowering in the entrance of their store.

Hermione couldn't process anything. There had been no warning. Malfoy hadn't said anything. She hid behind rubble as the shadow of a Death Eater flew overhead, casting a _protego_ as a spell rocketed toward her. She felt her chest heaving, gasping for air as she scanned the street, and she zeroed in on a mass. Squinting, Hermione recognized the thin, greasy hair of Fenrir Greyback as he stalked toward Fay Dunbar, who was crawling away, her leg mangled in too many places.

Hermione saw red. She pushed herself to her feet, suddenly a spectator to her own body as she walked toward them. As she raised her wand, all she saw was Lavender Brown, her throat open, and Parvati screaming over her as Padma cried silently over her sister. She saw Remus Lupin, his hand outstretched to Tonks, their son abandoned. She saw Bill Weasley, forever an outcast, forever doomed to being alone.

" _Avada kedavra_!"

Even after Greyback slumped to the ground, Hermione didn't stop. She whirled frantically, aiming for Death Eaters blindly. The green light was true every time. Hermione was angry, she was exhausted. She was tired of the terror. She was tired of seeing the weight on her friends' shoulders. She was tired of being right in sending her parents away. Every Death Eater in her vicinity fell; if one dared to get close, she shot them down immediately. She was aware of a ringing in her ears, but then she realized it was her – screaming.

And then it stopped. The roar of apparating Death Eaters was gone. Hermione's chest stuttered; everything was quiet, except for the flames that licked over the stores around her. She turned in circles, her purpose gone. Her throat was raw, dry.

And then she turned, and she saw Ron. He was faraway, his red hair glowing in the sun. He didn't have a scratch on him. Ernie was next to him, scanning Diagon Alley as understanding settled on his face.

"Hermione?" Ron called. But it was quiet. Uncertain. Like he didn't know her.

She wanted to drop her wand. She wanted to fall into the ground and never come out, let the layers of earth suffocate her forever. She saw it in Ron's eyes, even from far away: fear.

"I…" she rasped out.

Ron made no move toward her. It was Ernie instead. And she knew why. He'd done it before. Ernie held his hand out, preemptively trying to calm her. "Hermione," he said softly.

She couldn't. She couldn't stand this with them.

"I have to go," she rushed out.

The world spun around her, and she stumbled into the hallway of Grimmauld Place, her side slamming into the wall. She couldn't feel it.

Everything seemed like it was underwater, garbled. But she could hear raised voices, yelling from the kitchen. She dragged her feet through mud to get there, the fluorescent light nearly blinding. Kingsley was standing at the end of the table, his face animated as he stabbed into the wood with his finger.

"…on't tell me you didn't know!" he shouted, his voice becoming clear as she got closer.

"Haven't I proven that my allegiance lies with you?! It was unapproved, a small group of _stupid_ kids!"

Hermione knew the drawl anywhere. She let out a whimper, relieved that she guessed he would be here.

"How can a small group of _kids_ attack the entirety of Diagon Alley?!"

"By being _stupid_ —!"

Hermione leaned against the doorframe, and Malfoy cut himself off. He froze at seeing her, his eyes widening slightly. She swore she saw his breathing stop.

"Miss Granger?" Kingsley asked quietly.

Hermione didn't look at him. She was locked in on Malfoy.

"I killed them," she said.

She saw Kingsley shift in the corner of her eye, registered a question from him. But she focused on Malfoy. He lowered his shoulders, his face turning grim.

"I killed them all," she whispered.

She lost the ability to hold herself up. As she sank to the floor, her sight became watery, and she buried her face in her hands, afraid to cry, afraid to feel anything. She sobbed in the doorway of the kitchen, not stopping even as she registered being held, a strong scent of metal and mint enveloping her.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay, we're officially in "still wip territory"! I'm hoping to get done with chapter nine this weekend, and it usually takes me about a week to finish a chapter in its entirety. I can't tell you how happy you guys have made me through this process -- I definitely never expected such a positive response, and you guys have made my entire week. I hope you continue to enjoy it as we get further!

* * *

8

_"I am young, I am twenty years old; yet I know nothing of life but despair, death, fear, and fatuous superficiality cast over an abyss of sorrow. I see how peoples are set against one another, and in silence, unknowingly, foolishly, obediently, innocently slay one another."_

_Erich Maria Remarque_

* * *

Hermione thought that most of her life could be divided into two categories: the times when she was locking herself in someone else's room, and the times when she wasn't. She contemplated her placement now: technically, this was Regulus Black's room before. But he was dead. Luna slept in this room most of the time, but she didn't intend on living here any time soon. Perhaps it was Harry's room, since he owned Grimmauld Place. But he was dead too.

It certainly wasn't Hermione's room. She didn't have a room anymore. Therefore, it was someone else's. And she was locking herself in it.

Luna was with her most of the time. She'd update her on the war ( _The Death Eaters had a hard loss, they've been pretty quiet recently._ ), on the healing effort ( _Hannah's been taking up most of the job. Neville helps sometimes._ ), and on completely useless things that Hermione had no desire to know ( _Ron has been eating chocolate again. I think there's a gnome under our porch. I found the gnome, he likes the orange bush outside the kitchen window._ ).

Ernie came by twice. Both times, he told her everything she should have wanted to hear: that what she did helped, that there was nothing else that could have stopped the attack, that she did what she had to do. But after he left, surely feeling dejected by the lack of conversation she provided, she didn't feel any better.

Ron didn't come by at all. Hermione wasn't surprised.

Kingsley walked in exactly once, not even bothering to knock before stepping in. He told her that her feelings were expected, but that she had a short amount of time to pull it together. "We need you, Ms. Granger, if the attack on Diagon Alley didn't make that clearer than it already was," he said, in a way that exuded compassion and irritation at the same time. Hermione wasn't sure how anyone could combine the two, and as he left, she was mostly impressed by the ability.

Kingsley was right, of course. But it didn't help anything.

And then Malfoy came. He knocked on the door and pushed it open without waiting for a reply. She barely acknowledged him, glancing once at his black ensemble before further twisting herself away from the door. She heard him scoff at her back.

"Do you intend on being miserable for the rest of your life?" he snarked.

Hermione didn't hesitate. "Yes."

She wasn't in the mood for his games.

What surprised her was the creak of floorboards as he approached, and then the sinking of the bed as he sat next to her. She twisted slightly, watching him lean against the wall that the bed was closest to, fold his arms across his chest, and close his eyes.

"What are you doing?" she asked, her voice hoarse from misuse.

He opened an eye, arching his brow as he did so. "Misery loves company, yes?"

"No," she muttered, being difficult.

He sighed, closing his eye again. "I'm trying to rest. Shut up."

The second time, he brought work. Hermione sat as far away as possible from him at the end of the bed, while he still rested against the wall, his long legs dangling off the edge of the bed as he furrowed his brows at the parchment on his lap. After spending entirely too long in what she felt to be uncomfortable silence, she sat up slightly, releasing her lip and staring at him.

"Why are you here?"

Malfoy didn't even look up. "I need quiet to work. You're quiet."

Hermione narrowed her eyes. "You're lying."

He pursed his lips, clicking his tongue as he shook his head.

"Well, I don't believe you."

"Now _that's_ a lie," he drawled. "You just want there to be a better reason."

Hermione shut up then, going back to gnawing at her lip. She hated that he could read her.

It became a routine. Not necessarily that he was there every day, but that she expected him often. He come, he'd work, he'd leave. And she wouldn't say a word.

Somehow, it was better than Luna filling the space with literally any thought that popped into her head.

After a while, though, Hermione couldn't take it. The silence ate at her, shriveled her insides to dust. Under the scribbling of Malfoy's quill, she saw every Death Eater she shot down, the flaming rubble that surrounded her at Diagon Alley, and Greyback readying to pounce on Fay Dunbar as she helplessly tried to crawl away. She replayed everything, up until the last eye contact she made with Ron before she apparated away. He looked like he didn't even know her. She wasn't sure she knew herself.

Hermione killed twelve people. She heard the whispers outside the door. A group of kids under Greyback's leadership, intent on wreaking havoc on a small section of Diagon Alley. A group of kids with parents, siblings, ambitions, _lives_ of their own. She took everything from them without a second thought. Her conscience hissed like a venomous snake, weaving in and out of dark corners and telling her over and over that she was no better than a slimy Death Eater.

Hermione picked at the fraying edges of the top blanket on the bed and swallowed. She closed her eyes, refusing to look at him.

"When did you first kill someone?"

She heard Malfoy's quill stop. After a moment, there was a small exhale.

"Seventh year," he replied coolly.

"Why?"

Malfoy let out a deeper huff. "The Carrows taught Defense. Their teaching methods heavily relied on student participation."

Hermione opened her eyes and cautiously turned to her left. His legs still dangled off the edge of the bed, long and slender, and the moon glinted off his pointed dress shoes as it dripped between the curtains, casting a bluish glow throughout the bedroom. He was nearly ethereal in the blue haze, his pale skin no longer out of place but perfectly uniform in the dark. And he was looking at her; his eyes wandered across her face before finally settling at her own, and he pressed his lips in a thin line.

"You didn't answer the question," she finally croaked.

He blinked once and tilted his head, opting to look towards the window. The moon reflected in his gaze, bringing out specks of icy blue that she didn't know were there. He brought his hand over his mouth, the onyx Malfoy ring merely a dull shadow on his forefinger.

"They tortured Weasley because she wouldn't do it," he said. "And they told Daphne to keep her quiet. Astoria was crying."

He sighed, dropping his hand and leaning back into the wall. "I'd never seen Pansy look more scared in her life," he murmured. He lifted his chin and finally looked at her again, years of weariness that no one their age should be familiar with plain on his face. "So, I did it."

Hermione bit her lip and tore her gaze off him. She could feel her bottom lip beginning to tremble and she sucked in a breath, refusing to cry again. She'd done enough of it already.

"Does it always feel like this?" she whispered.

"No," he answered quickly. "You get over it."

Hermione scoffed. "That's worse."

"Than what?" he asked aggressively. She felt the bed shift as he turned to face her fully. "Sitting in a room and feeling sorry about it?"

"I can't _sleep_ at night, Malfoy," Hermione said tersely. She squeezed her eyes shut and fisted the top blanket tightly between her fingers. She heard a snap of magic near her ears. "Not when twelve people are just gone because of _me_."

"You have to let it go."

"Don't tell me what to do," she growled.

"Then don't ask for my advice," Malfoy snapped. Suddenly, the mattress lifted, and she heard the snap of his shoes against the wood paneling of the floor. She expected him to leave, but instead his footsteps stalked in front of her, and she opened her eyes to glare at him as he crossed his arms over his chest.

"I didn't ask for your advice," Hermione spat.

"Yes, you did," he said tightly. "You did the moment you asked about _my_ first. Either that, or you have a particular talent for dredging up things I'd rather forget about."

"So you _do_ feel guilty," Hermione poked, lifting a brow menacingly.

She shouldn't have done it; in a competition to be more menacing, she should have known Malfoy would win. He leaned forward, his eyes no longer in the rays of the moon and instead darkened by the shadows around them.

"I didn't say that," he said lowly.

Hermione drew back slowly, blinking in disbelief.

"I won't coddle you like everyone else, Granger," he continued. "Get the fuck over it. People get killed during war. That's the way it is."

" _You're_ not coddling me?" Hermione barked out a single laugh. "Why are you here, then? Why stay if you're not coddling me?"

"Because I know that Lovegood talks your ear off all day in hopes you'll say anything, and I know that you never will," Malfoy said, tilting his head in challenge.

"I would have!"

"Right, after months of figuring out how to bring a couple Death Eaters back from the dead?"

Hermione balked, inhaling sharply, but Malfoy didn't stop.

"Or were you going to wait until after everyone else in the Order died fighting without you?"

"They wouldn't," Hermione muttered, but she was feeling her resolve falter. She could feel tears brimming at her lashes, and she twisted away from him slightly, lifting her chin so they wouldn't fall. "They don't need me," she said shakily.

"You're daft if you think that," Malfoy said, his tone softening. Hermione glanced at him, seeing that he had drew away, but he still watched her, his eyes now pools of melted silver. "Abbott can't heal by herself. She doesn't work like you do. And by all accounts, they could use you in the field as well. I've never heard of anyone killing twelve people and walking out without a scratch."

He paused, and his throat bobbed. "You're a remarkable witch, Granger. They need you."

Hermione's chest stuttered, and she shook her head, pressing her lips together. When she felt a single tear splatter onto her cheek, she fully turned away, burying her face in her shoulder and gasping for air. "I don't know who that is," she struggled out. Her chest shook, her lungs on fire. "I…I don't see that person. I don't recognize _me_." She furiously wiped at her cheek, but it was fruitless; the tears were instantly replaced, hot against her skin. "Ron can't even look at me," she mumbled, too afraid to speak any clearer.

It was silent aside from her traitorous lips letting out breathless sobs that died instantly within the room. Hermione squeezed her eyes shut, her temples beginning to throb against her struggling. Then, the floorboards creaked, and her heart suddenly stopped at a gentle brush at her cheek. His fingers were cold, nearly freezing her at their touch; it could have been mistaken for a small gust of winter air that blew silently over her. The Malfoy ring thrummed at her cheekbone as he lightly thumbed away the thickening tear trails. As he brought his fingers down, drying her cheek, he caught her chin and lifted her head.

Hermione opened her eyes to see him towering over her. His chest touched the top of her knees as she hugged them against her. Hermione swore his eyes flicked to her lips before he met her gaze again; guarded and impassive, as always.

"People change," he said gently. "You would have changed even if this didn't happen. But you have to let it go. It will kill you if you don't."

Hermione wanted to hold his wrist, hold him there in that moment and never leave. But she was frozen. And Malfoy dropped his hand, stepping back and fisting his hands in his pockets as he leaned against the far wall and stared at his shoes.

"How do you sleep?" she asked suddenly, her voice scratchy against the dryness of her throat.

Malfoy looked up. His hair threatened to fall over his forehead, pure white in the blue moon beams. "I don't," he said simply. "But if I can protect the people I care about, then maybe I will someday."

Malfoy pushed himself off the wall, sparing her a lingering glance before sauntering toward the door. "I'm on a mission for a couple days," he said, without turning back. "You can stay up here with Lovegood all day, or not. I won't be here."

And he opened the door swiftly, leaving it open behind him.

* * *

Hermione was up before the sun the next day, already brewing wolfsbane despite her pounding headache and bleary vision. She yawned as she stirred the contents of the cauldron and rubbed at her eye until she saw spots. Sleep wasn't accessible to her; a couple million cups of coffee would have to do.

There were slow, bulky footsteps coming down the stairs, and Hermione's shoulders tightened as she continued to work. She'd recognize those footsteps anywhere. Her jaw tightened, and she waited to time turning away from the entrance of the kitchen exactly right, so she could avoid talking to him for as long as possible. Even as she stared hopelessly at ingredients she didn't need, his footsteps came to an abrupt stop on the tile.

"'Mione?"

Hermione plastered a weak smile on her face and twisted to face him. "Morning, Ron."

Ron instantly dashed across the kitchen and pulled her into a bearhug, successfully squeezing all the air out of her lungs. "Ron—!"

"I'm sorry, Hermione," he said, his voice muffled by her hair. "I should have come by, but I'm bad enough at talking as it is and Luna wasn't getting anywhere—"

"Ron, it's okay."

She patted his back, and Ron stepped away slightly and cupped her cheeks firmly. "Are you alright?" he asked earnestly.

Hermione couldn't help herself. She smiled, truly broke into it, and grabbed his wrists and brought them away from her face, sliding her fingers between his. "I'm alright."

Ron tilted his head, his eyebrows raising.

"Really, Ron," she said. "I'm fine."

"And Hermione Granger makes a triumphant return!"

Hermione leaned around Ron to see Ernie grinning from ear to ear as he walked into the kitchen. "I knew we'd see you soon," he said, throwing a bag onto the counter and bending to rest his forearms against it. "You practically _live_ in the kitchen, anyway."

"Sod off, Ernie," Hermione giggled. Her smile faltered slightly as she glanced between the two boys and the bag that Ernie rested on. "Are you…going somewhere?"

Ernie shrugged as he reached for an apple from the fruit bowl at the other end of the counter. "Just a scout, nothing major."

"Why didn't you say anything?" Hermione asked urgently. She twisted on her heel and stalked toward the cabinets, pulling out as much gauze and Dittany as her hands could handle. "I would have gotten more Dittany—"

"Not that kind of scout, Hermione," Ron said, his tone light.

Hermione looked over her shoulder, raising a brow.

"We're scouting for new Order members," Ron continued.

Ernie nodded, biting into his apple and immediately picking between his teeth. Hermione's eyes darted between the two of them, but no explanation came.

"Would you care to elaborate a bit further?" she asked impatiently.

Ron sighed. "After the attack on Diagon Alley, a lot of people were hurt. Their businesses were destroyed. We've heard around the loop that some people are fed up. More willing to fight."

Hermione blinked. "With us?"

Ernie smirked. "With us."

Hermione fell back into the counter, her arms limp at her sides. They could have more members. Larger ranks. A better chance. She stared at the healing supplies in her hands, pursed her lips, and drew herself up. She set the supplies firmly on the counter, in between Ron and Ernie, and lifted her chin.

"Take them just in case," she ordered. "Don't do anything stupid."

Ron and Ernie glanced at each other, slow smiles spreading across their faces, and Ernie grabbed the supplies and stuffed them into the bag. "We won't let you down, Prefect Granger," he teased.

"And keep the antics to a minimum, Macmillan," Hermione said, trying to remain stoic. She couldn't help the smile that tugged at the corners of her lips though. She pointed her ladle at both of them, a mocking image of Professor McGonagall painted on her face. "I expect results."

Ernie winked, and Ron let out a loud laugh. "We'll be back tonight," Ron said as they turned to leave. "Don't wait up."

"You know I will," Hermione called to their backs. "Be safe!"

Hermione couldn't wipe the smile off her face even after they had long gone. The hope of the war turning to their favor was too palpable.

* * *

It was a cloudy night. The moon was completely covered in a dark fog, and no light seemed to escape through. Hermione stared out into the pitch, unable to make out the houses that she knew sat behind their own. She folded her arms, rubbing lightly at her skin and wishing she had brought a jumper from upstairs. Then again, she hadn't expected needing to open the windows at all.

Hermione forgot how disgustingly foul Murtlap tentacles smelled. As if that wasn't enough, in order to brew Murtlap essence, she had to pickle the tentacles too. The kitchen was drenched in a nauseating combination of sea salt, vinegar, and rotting flesh. Hermione couldn't even look at the concoction anymore; it was a putrid green, reminding her of the terrible movies that her father had been such a fan of that clearly didn't know what vomit tended to look like.

She leaned forward, hoping to gain access to cleaner air by getting closer to the window, and sucked in a deep breath. Then, she straightened, waving her wand and casting a bubble-head charm. After it successfully formed, Hermione released it from her face and expanded it with _engorgio_ , until it filled the entire room. With quick direction from her wand, she sent the bubble out of the window and closed it, before letting the bubble pop outside with a flick.

Hermione sniffed, thankful that the air in the kitchen would be breathable again for a small amount of time. She turned to sit at the head of the table and picked up her quill, her forehead furrowing at the inventory list. Her lip began to bleed as she gnawed at it; the amount of Dittany she had stocked was worrying. They were down to twenty vials, and all the underground shops that sold it lost their supply after the attack on Diagon Alley.

She never made Dittany before. It was a complicated recipe, one that required time and talent that she wasn't sure she had. Hermione rubbed slow circles into her temple; she could ask Malfoy in Daphne was willing to give them more, but she wasn't sure—

There was a crash in the hallway, and Hermione straightened, her eyes widening. She immediately grabbed her wand and rushed to the entrance of the kitchen, only to be knocked aside by Malfoy and two other people he was leading towards the table. As he sat them down and stepped back, stalking toward the sink, Hermione gasped.

It was Daphne. Her eyes were red, rimmed with tears, and her caramel hair was matted and tangled. She glared maliciously at Malfoy, breathing heavily and holding another person against her chest. From the long, dark brown hair, Hermione guessed it was Astoria, but she couldn't see the girl's face.

"Malfoy…?" Hermione said slowly.

Malfoy was searching the cabinets, and he let out a growl of frustration before slamming the last one shut so hard that the contents rattled. His hand shot out to turn on the sink, and he placed his hands on the counter, his head bent parallel to the floor.

"Don't, Granger," he seethed. His voice was thick, reminding her of when Ron would try to talk with food in his mouth.

Hermione stepped forward once, unable to contain herself. Her chest rose and fell quickly, panicked to know what was going on. "What—?"

"Don't _fucking_ talk, Granger!" Malfoy shouted, twisting to face her.

Hermione's hand slapped over her mouth as she retreated. There was a waterfall of blood leaking from his mouth, and his teeth were stained red. There were cuts along his face, the outlines of a Death Eater mask bruising around his eyes, cheekbones, and mouth. Hermione didn't even have to ask; she knew that he got his face kicked in with the mask on. She was surprised he even had teeth left.

Malfoy turned back to the sink, splashing his hand in the water, and bringing it to his mouth. He wiped away the blood and spat globs of red into the sink before shutting it off with a forceful smack to the faucet. Hermione held her tongue as he faced them again, his eyes darting between herself and Daphne as he carelessly wiped his hand off with a towel. His chin still glowed red, appearing like a rash around his lips.

"Don't fucking move an inch," he hissed, scowling at Daphne.

"Do _not_ talk to me like that, Draco," Daphne snapped.

Malfoy didn't respond. He was already well on his way out of the kitchen. When he looked at Hermione, she felt the temperature around her drop, his anger nearly withering her insides.

"Don't fucking say anything until I get back," he ordered, pointing at her before rocketing out of the kitchen and up the stairs. Daphne glared at his path of retreat, flinching slightly when a door upstairs was opened and slammed shut.

Hermione slowly dropped her hand, unable to take her eyes off the blackness of the hallway. Her mind was racing; she felt slow, in shock compared to it. Malfoy was never like that. Even when he first came to Grimmauld Place, he was contained. She turned to face Daphne, who was now rocking back and forth, Astoria still clinging to her for dear life.

"Are you alright?" Hermione managed to ask.

Daphne's dark eyes flicked up to meet hers. "You're not stupid, Hermione," she accused, her twinkling voice replaced with gravel. "Do I look alright?"

Hermione's shoulders dropped heavily, and she shook her head.

Daphne sighed, looking back down at Astoria and petting her hair. "You have supplies, yes?"

It took a moment for Hermione realize that she was still talking to her. "Yes," she coughed out, clearing her throat. "What do you need?"

Daphne pursed her lips. "Astoria," she said softly, lifting the girl's chin. "Come sit on the table."

Astoria had gotten taller, taller than Daphne since Hermione had last seen her. Her limbs were thin, and she appeared more spidery than Daphne, clearly not fully grown into her height. As Hermione approached, the younger girl climbed on top of the table and sat, facing them, and tucked her hair behind her ears.

When she saw Astoria's face, Hermione inhaled sharply. There was a deep cut marring the left side. It curved from the middle of her forehead to the corner of her mouth, and went through her eye, leaving so much blood splattered across Astoria's features that it nearly made her unrecognizable.

"Wait here," Hermione said, turning on her heel and rushing to the cabinets. She grabbed everything she would use to treat the wound and quickly brought it back, setting it on the table at Astoria's right. Daphne stared wordlessly at the ingredients and quirked a brow.

"You knew what to bring," she said, a light, glowing lilt finding its way into her monotone voice.

Hermione allowed a weak smile across her lips. "I had a good teacher."

Daphne returned her smile, and started to work on Astoria's cut. She scourgified the blood away, and tilted Astoria's head to point her wand easily at her eye. As Daphne whispered incantations, her hand twitching with every precise movement, Hermione went back to the cabinets and brought back their last roll of gauze. After placing it on the table next to the other healing supplies, Hermione fiddled with her fingers, and shifted her weight from side to side.

She was afraid to ask what had happened. Daphne exuded the warning that she would not tolerate being questioned. But Astoria was trembling as Daphne healed her, and it was considerably too cold in the kitchen for summer, even though Malfoy was still upstairs. Hermione could only ascertain that something was horribly wrong.

Daphne placed her wand carefully on the table, stepping back slightly and furrowing her brows at Astoria's eye. Hermione leaned closer, seeing that it appeared as if nothing happened, that there had been no wound gouged through it previously, aside from a thin line of discolored pigment that cut through the middle of her dark iris.

"It's blurry," Astoria said, her voice meek.

"I can't do much better," Daphne muttered.

Astoria's forehead wrinkled, and she pressed her lips into a thin line before throwing her face to the floor. "Does it…look alright?" she asked weakly.

Daphne tensed up, her face snapping from the rest of the healing supplies to stare at Astoria. After a moment, she sighed and tucked a stray strand of dark hair behind her sister's ear, holding it there for a second too long. "Of course, it does," Daphne said softly. "You can't even tell that it's there."

Astoria looked up, the corners of her lips flicking upwards in thanks. Daphne shifted, reaching for a vial of Dittany, and tilted Astoria's head again to apply it.

"Theo is coming soon," Daphne said, sparing a glance at Hermione.

Hermione's eyebrows raised to her hairline. "Theo?"

Daphne nodded once. "Draco told him to bring Pansy." As she placed the vial of Dittany down, trading it in for the roll of gauze, she shook her head, exhaling through her teeth. "I don't know why Draco told him to do that. She won't come."

Hermione watched as she began to wrap her sister's gash, frowning. "Come…here?" she asked hesitantly.

Daphne shot her an impatient look, clearly gearing up to scold her, but her mouth closed with a click of her teeth at the sound of dragonhide shoes rapidly descending the stairs. Hermione scampered toward the seat at the opposite end of the table and rested her chin in her hand, a desperate attempt to appear inconspicuous. She had no intention of getting hexed tonight.

If it was possible, Malfoy seemed more furious than he left. He glowered at the three of them as he went to throw a pile of parchment on the counter, his nostrils flaring like a dragon. He finally tore his thunderous gaze off them to filter through the pages, his bloodied fingers marking up the edges. Hermione bit at her lip, her eyes darting between Malfoy and Daphne; the latter had completely turned her back on him, intent on covering Astoria's wound with gauze.

"I told you not to fucking move," Malfoy said coldly, shooting daggers at Daphne's back.

Daphne raised a brow, never pausing from wrapping Astoria's face. "If you talk to me like that one more time, Draco, you won't live to see the morning." She finally twisted, meeting Malfoy's glare with one equally as deadly. "I'll make sure of it."

" _Perfect_ ," Malfoy spat, throwing a small pile of parchment aggressively to the floor before continuing to sift through the rest of the pile. "Clearly I've developed some sort of fucking death wish. I'd actually _prefer_ it if you killed me. Could you do it sooner rather than later?"

"You shouldn't joke about that," Astoria said softly. She fiddled with her fingers, her uncovered eye wide and worried.

"Don't worry, Astoria," Daphne responded, her voice dripping with poisoned honey. "Draco doesn't have a death wish." She tilted her head, clenching and baring her teeth like a lion preparing to pounce. "In fact, I think he'd actually prefer it if _we_ died before _him_ , so he can continue to complain that his life was the most miserable out of everyone else's."

"Have I _ever_ said that?!" Malfoy exploded, rounding on Daphne and towering over her. Hermione shrank into her chair, hugging herself as the room plunged into an icy cold. She frantically watched around them, her breath quickening as the shadows in the room grew darker, larger, and seemed to crawl toward them.

Hermione looked up then, counting flickers in the overhead light. She slowly reached into her pocket, gripping her wand tightly and swallowing hard. She was prepared for it to shatter. She glanced at Malfoy in the corner of her eye; he could certainly do it.

"No, but you're certainly selfish enough to act like it!" Daphne shrieked.

Hermione gritted her teeth, hoping that she wouldn't get glass in her eye by staring up at the light like this. She waited, her wand ready; she waited for Malfoy to break the light.

But it didn't come. The flickering slowed, and then ceased. Hermione frowned, wildly turning in her chair to look around the room. The shadows were nearly gone. The temperature was almost too hot now, the mugginess of the cloudy night suddenly seeping into the kitchen again. Hermione slowly let go of her wand, sliding it into her pocket again, and looked up at Malfoy.

He had stepped back from Daphne. His face had gone pale, completely devoid of color; his skin nearly matched the white tile of the counter. His jaw was clenched, and his eyes were wide as they darted across Daphne's face, a light grey that reminded Hermione of the sky hours after a storm. His eyes reminded her of the time she told him he knew nothing of success; open, shocked, wounded.

He let out a desperate breath, and Hermione's tensed, her stomach dropping.

"Everything I do is to keep you safe," Malfoy said shakily.

Daphne lifted her chin, shaking her head. "Where was that tonight?" she asked tightly. "I didn't see it."

"Daphne—" he said, his voice dangerously close to pleading.

"It's not his fault, Daphne—" Astoria said softly, attempting to pull at her sister's arm.

"No," Daphne gritted, shoving her sister off. " _Where_ was that tonight?" she repeated, narrowing her eyes at Malfoy. "My sister is nearly blind in one eye, my sister is scarred for life because of _you_ ," Daphne accused, advancing, and poking him in the chest with her forefinger. "I had to _watch_ that happen, because of _you_. How in the hell was that keeping us safe?"

Malfoy chest rose and fell variably, his jaw clenched enough to break his teeth, but he refused to look away from Daphne. Hermione watched, her chest tight and unable to breathe, as he finally broke the eye contact and stared at the floor. She heard him gasp quietly, as if fighting back a sob.

There was a crack in the hallway, and a mess of lanky limbs and mousey brown curls staggered into the kitchen. Theodore Nott supported himself with his hands on either side of the entrance, his hazel eyes darting between the four of them warily. Malfoy's head snapped up, and he immediately pressed his lips together, as if preparing for the worst.

"Pansy's not coming," Theo said quietly, opting to stare at the floor.

Malfoy's throat bobbed, and he sucked in a breath. Daphne straightened, pursing her lips before turning back to Malfoy and raising a clinical brow.

"I guess you won't be keeping her safe either, then," she said snidely, folding her arms across her chest.

"Daphne," Theo scolded, dropping his arms from the entrance of the kitchen and collapsing into himself in defeat.

Daphne opened her mouth, but after a pointed and stern look from Theo as he crossed the kitchen, she closed it with a snap.

Hermione picked at her fingernails nervously. It was too quiet now; she counted the clicks on her watch, waiting. She didn't know if _all_ Slytherins needed time to digest like Malfoy did, but she wasn't going to take her chances.

"What happened?" she squeaked out, after a full minute of silence.

She looked pointedly at Malfoy, but he only brought his hands to his face, his fingers splayed over the cuts and bruises from his mask as he gently rubbed at his temples. When no one answered, Hermione opened her mouth with the intention of being more stern, but she was interrupted by the patio door at the back of the kitchen being opened.

Hermione exhaled slowly, and squeezed her eyes shut. Of course, Ron and Ernie had to get back from another scouting mission _now_.

"Right, and the fact that muggles use _people_ to deliver the mail is crazy to me," Ernie said seriously as he opened the patio door, his head turned to face Ron behind him. "Like, is that just someone's _job_ —?"

Ernie faced forward and instantly cut off, his smile dropping immediately as he froze in the middle of the patio entrance. He slowly looked around, as if he was trying to discern where to put a puzzle piece.

"Mate, what the fuck—" Ron started, but as he peeked around Ernie, his voice stopped short just as quickly. He brushed past Ernie, dropping his backpack of supplies to the floor with a thud.

"What the fuck is going on?" Ron asked sternly. His tone demanded an answer.

Hermione stood quickly from her seat, ignoring its scrape against the floor. "Ron, Ernie, glad you're back," she said, as diplomatically as she could. "They were just explaining why they're here."

Hermione turned pointedly to Malfoy, who was now looking up at her impassively. She raised an eyebrow at him, widening her eyes slightly in hopes he would catch the message. _Please explain what's going on, please tell them what's going on so they don't hex you_ , she thought, practically tried to scream silently to Malfoy.

"Weren't you?" she prodded.

Malfoy's jaw tightened, and he pushed himself off the counter. To Hermione's horror, he completely twisted on his heels and started sauntering out of the kitchen.

"I have to talk to Shacklebolt," he drawled, grabbing the pieces of parchment he had been sifting through earlier and walking into the hallway without another word.

After a moment of confused silence, Ron and Ernie practically ran upstairs after him, leaving Hermione with three Death Eater sympathizers and no backup at all. Hermione groaned, landing ungracefully into her seat and slamming her head against the table.

"You'll get a concussion that way," Daphne said simply.

Hermione didn't answer at all.

* * *

The streetlamp outside the front of Grimmauld Place glowed yellow behind the curtains of the living room, reminding Hermione of a constant blare of car headlights that pointed intimidatingly into an unknown house. She peered around the wall on her tiptoes, stifling her breathing to be as silent as possible. Theo and Daphne were still awake, after all.

They sat close together on one couch, silently staring ahead. Theo had his arm casually draped over Daphne's shoulders, and his right ankle was propped against his left knee. Daphne sat as stiff as a board, her legs crossed, and her hands neatly placed in her lap. Her hair was wet, dark and pulled over her shoulders to dry after her shower. She bit at the inside of her cheek, but otherwise didn't move a muscle.

Theo sighed then, and tilted his chin slightly towards her as he began to speak. Daphne raised an eyebrow, shrugging, and Theo's eyes stayed transfixed on her, wandering down the profile of her face, of her neck, before he finally leaned in and placed a chaste kiss at the corner of her mouth. Daphne closed her eyes and slid down the couch, allowing herself to nestle into the crook of his neck, her body melding into his side. Her hand reached toward his own, the one that was wrapped around her shoulder, and her fingers slid between his, limply stroking the back of his hand.

Hermione gritted her teeth and spun away from her hiding place. After checking on the now brewing Murtlap essence, she quickly flicked the lights off with more force than necessary and stalked toward the guest bedroom, pausing before the door she already knew to be locked.

She knocked far more times than it was worth to keep track of throughout the night. There was no answer each time. Her fingernails cut into the skin of her palm as she glared at the door, considering if it was worth it to try again. She needed to lay down, after all, even if sleep wouldn't come.

But then she thought about how Theo and Daphne clammed up after Astoria fell asleep. She thought about how Ron and Ernie never came back downstairs. And she thought about how Malfoy had slammed _this_ door shut, the most blatant "do not disturb" signal, if she ever knew one. She thought about how she _still_ knew nothing, how no one even bothered to fill her in. And she thought about how she had never been more annoyed in her life.

Hermione tried to be patient. But it wasn't in her nature.

Without a second thought, Hermione raised her fist and beat on the door like it owed her money. "Draco Malfoy," she hissed venomously, loud enough so she knew it would make it through the wood. "I will not be kept out of a room in this house. Open the bloody door, or I will kick it down myself."

There was a loud clack from the other side, and the door swung open. Malfoy appeared under the frame, his injuries pronouncing his irritated scowl more prominently than she'd ever seen.

"A word of advice," he seethed, although his voice failed to carry its usual edge. "If someone doesn't answer on the _first_ knock, they won't answer on the sixtieth."

He moved to shut her out, and Hermione quickly stepped into the frame, raising her forearm and colliding painfully with the door. As she let out a small groan, Malfoy immediately relented the force, balking slightly in surprise.

"You did," she grunted, raising a brow.

Malfoy narrowed his eyes, before fully opening the door and scoffing as he turned away from her. "I'm not keen on property damage."

It was Hermione's turn to scoff. She stepped into the guest bedroom and shut the door behind her, blinking rapidly as she adjusted to the dim light provided by a musty lamp in the corner. "An odd thing to have reservations about, considering your position."

Malfoy didn't answer. He was leaning fully against the wall, his eyes motionless as he stared out the window. The darkness angled him, made him harsh. But he didn't match it; he seemed anything but hardened now, exuding something tired and downcast. Hermione bit her lip, refusing to soften as she watched him. She folded her arms across her chest and lifted her chin as she took a step forward.

"What is going on?"

Malfoy's jaw tightened, and he closed his eyes. "Ask Weasley," he said shortly. "Talk to Shacklebolt for all I care."

Hermione narrowed her eyes. "I want to know from you."

When he didn't answer, Hermione's irritation flared. "You can tell everyone else, but not me?" she asked icily.

The breath he exhaled out of his nose reminded her of a dragon, like she had disturbed the peace in his lair. Even when he opened his eyes, there was a flare behind the grey, alighting them furiously. "I fail to see how hearing it from me will change anything," Malfoy said tersely, the warning clear in his tone.

"You're at the center of it!" Hermione accused. She could care less about warnings. She took another step forward, glowering at him. "I prefer my knowledge to be straight from the source, and I _loathe_ being kept in the dark."

Malfoy ripped himself from the wall, and Hermione straightened, holding her ground. But he didn't round on her. He stalked toward the desk on the other side of the room, unnecessarily straightening the minimal objects there. When he finished, he went to the bed, apparently seeing some placement of the pillows that needed tidying. As he paced throughout the room, his fingers itched to be busy, flexing and unflexing at his sides, and Hermione couldn't help the concern she tried so hard to keep at bay from surfacing.

"Right," he finally said, when the entire room had been fixed to his liking. Hermione's forehead furrowed as she watched him continue to pace, his legs too long to make any distance worthwhile. When his hands came up to cover his face, she closed the space between them, reaching to grab his wrists and pull them down.

"You shouldn't," she said softly. Her breath was suddenly taken away, her lungs completely aware of how close they were, the tips of their shoes brushing against each other. "You'll infect…" Hermione pursed her lips, one of her hands gesturing toward the mess of injuries on his face. "That."

Malfoy stared at her. She felt the hesitant brush of his fingertips close in on the back of her hands, as if delicately asking permission to be there. And he stared at her. Hermione's heart stuttered as she returned his gaze, unabashedly tracing the line of his nose, the cuts around his eyes, the bruising on his high cheekbones. He was staring at her like it was the first time he'd ever seen her, like there was something new about the details of her face that captivated him. Hermione swallowed and quickly looked down, but even then, she couldn't escape it. Her hands had somehow traveled, now dangerously close to holding his own.

"Tell you what," she rasped. "I won't heal your face until you tell me."

"I'll get Daphne to heal it," he said immediately.

Hermione looked up at him through her lashes and raised a brow. "Right. Like you were so cordial earlier."

He sniffed, taking a miniscule step away as he tore his gaze toward the window. But he didn't remove himself from her grasp, and her stomach began to flutter.

"I don't want my face healed."

"Why don't you want to tell me?" she questioned. It came out more harshly than she intended, and her teeth clenched, waiting for him to turn defensive. But he said nothing; he still watched the blackness outside, as if something was suddenly very interesting there.

"I've told you things," Hermione said hesitantly.

"And that means I should tell you things, then?" he gritted out.

Hermione flinched. She stepped away, letting him go, and he immediately faced her again, his eyebrows drawing together.

"I had hoped you'd want to," Hermione admitted, unable to keep the stab of hurt hidden.

Malfoy sighed, and his hand came up over his mouth. Hermione knew he was choosing his words carefully, organizing his thoughts for better presentation. His tells were there, even if it took longer than she would have liked to understand them.

"It doesn't paint me in the best light," he finally said, his voice low.

Hermione bit her lip and watched as she fiddled her fingers meaninglessly. "I would want my face healed," she said. "Especially if I knew the person healing me wouldn't care how my words painted me as."

She looked up then, drawing some courage. "Your face looks like shit, anyway. It needs healing whether you like it or not."

Malfoy stared at her, and then his face split into a smile. Hermione's knees weakened at its brilliance.

"You'd do well as a Slytherin," he said, a glow hidden in his voice.

Hermione breathed out a laugh. "The Sorting Hat didn't tell me that."

"I'm telling you."

Malfoy twisted and grabbed the chair at the desk, spinning it so he could sit in front of her. He brought himself down gracefully, crossing his ankle over his knee and staring up at her. He tilted his head, a lascivious smirk gracing his features, and gestured for her to approach with his fingers.

Hermione pressed her lips together as she fished for her wand, thankful that the room might be dark enough to where he couldn't see the blush forming on her cheeks. She hesitantly touched at his chin, tilting his head further and pointing her wand at the closest cut on his cheekbone. There was a shake in her hand, her nerves firing rapidly as she tried to ignore how his eyes never wavered from her face.

"So?" Hermione nearly coughed out as she started healing.

The way his tongue ran over his teeth was sinful. It did nothing to help her composure. He sighed evenly, seeming hesitant to start.

"Death Eaters always want to increase their numbers. The best way to do that is recruitment within families."

Hermione frowned as he brought his gaze to the floor, but remained silent.

"The Greengrass family has been loyal from the start," Malfoy continued. "It was only a matter of time before their daughters would take up the cause."

Hermione stopped, flicking her gaze from his cut to the entirety of him in horror. "You're not saying—"

"Yes, I'm saying that," he interrupted. He shook his head, irritation drawing clearly on his features. "They were going to make Daphne take the Mark."

Hermione's mouth remained agape. "And…" she struggled against her shock, "…she didn't want to."

Malfoy shook his head again. "She begged me to find a way out of it. I brought it up to Shacklebolt a few weeks ago, and we had a plan to move her and Astoria here, to fight for the Order. Daphne wanted to defect before this happened, even."

He clicked his mouth shut, his eyes faraway. "But…" he started, cutting himself off again. He scoffed, rolling his eyes with disdain.

"I didn't think it was an immediate problem," Malfoy grated. "I stalled. And when I came back to the Manor tonight, Astoria was getting her eye gouged out."

He leaned forward, catching his face in his hands and splaying his fingers across his face. "Daphne wouldn't take the Mark," he continued. "They tried to use Astoria to change her mind."

Hermione had stopped breathing, her wand forgotten in her hand. She moved closer to him, her legs touching his knees, and sneaked her hands under his, cupping his cheeks and forcing him to look up at her. For the first time, Hermione saw him surprised; his hands lowered, and his eyes widened as she bent to be closer to him.

"It isn't your fault," she said clearly.

"It's _my_ fault," Malfoy argued. "Astoria wouldn't be scarred for life if I had done something sooner."

"You didn't do that. _They_ did that."

" _I'm_ one of them!" Malfoy shouted, suddenly standing and towering over her. "I _promised_ Daphne that I would take care of her, that I would take care of Astoria!"

"You have," Hermione said calmly, bracing a hand against his chest. "You brought them out, _alive_. You made sure that neither of them will be forced to take the Mark."

Malfoy inhaled sharply, turning on his heel and attempting to pace around the room again, and Hermione reached out, grabbing his wrist and preventing him from walking away. "Listen to me," she pleaded, her eyes wide and unwavering from his. "There is no way for you to predict everything. You can't, _especially_ with them."

"Us," Malfoy said tightly.

"Draco Malfoy," she scolded, closing the distance between them. "You are an Order member. You are not one of them."

"I have this damn mark that says otherwise."

"That doesn't define you. You didn't want it. I know you didn't."

Malfoy squeezed his eyes shut and attempted to pull away, but Hermione didn't let him. She grabbed at the lapel of his jacket, desperate to make him hear her. "You would _never_ let that happen to Daphne, or to Astoria, or to anyone. And you succeeded."

"Astoria—"

"Astoria has a scar from war, not you."

Malfoy remained quiet, struggling against his chest to control his labored breaths. Hermione could feel his heart fighting against his ribcage, beating wildly like a caged animal. His mouth opened and closed, suddenly unable to perfectly present himself.

"I'm tired," he whispered. He finally met her gaze, and Hermione could see it; desperation, a need for everything to be over. "I'm tired of doing this," he continued. "I can't…"

But Hermione knew, because she felt it too. She understood the fervent need to protect, to give her all. And she was tired too. She was so tired, and she couldn't sleep, and she was terrified that everything she did would be for nothing. That Luna, Ernie, and Ron would be taken from her. That her parents and Harry were taken from her for nothing. And as she stood so close to him, close enough that their chests nearly touched, Hermione realized that she was terrified Malfoy would be taken away too.

"I know," she said, her voice suddenly wavering. "I'm tired too."

Malfoy observed every detail of her face, his eyes drawing over her features. Her heart nearly stopped when he paused at her lips. Hermione's chin lifted, and everything fell into a buzz, the room static around them as he leaned forward the smallest amount.

And then he was gone. He removed himself, stalking toward the desk chair with his back to her. Hermione let out an exhale as everything came back, the room suddenly clear again.

She didn't know how long it was silent. The distance between them seemed too large, like the room was suddenly bigger than it actually was. Hermione felt a wash of relief go over her when he finally faced her again.

It was like he was a different person. Malfoy, as she knew him, was back: a stone wall. He fisted his hands in his pockets and pressed his lips together.

"Does my face still look like shit?"

Hermione smiled weakly, finding her wand again and gesturing toward the chair. "Sit."

Even as she tilted his head again, her touch as light as a feather, Malfoy avoided looking at her. She felt alone without his gaze; the intensity was gone, and she yearned for it.

"Malfoy?"

He hummed, the sound vibrating in her chest.

"It painted you in the best light possible."

She warmed as he looked up at her. His grey eyes cleared, and she knew it would be the closest to a thank you she would receive.

* * *

Hermione never liked swimming. Maybe it was because the water was always too cold, or because her cousins were always better at it than her; consequently, she was always the first one out, or the first one left behind. She especially hated being under the water. Everything was too blurry, and nothing like the pictures she imagined of sunlight sparkling through the surface, beaming onto the surroundings below. It was too silent, and she was too aware of being alone, being disconnected from the world above.

She felt like she was underwater now. Hermione rested her elbow against the table, her hand supporting her chin and her shoulders poised. But she couldn't hear anything; the conversation around her was muffled, distorted. Hermione certainly wasn't seeing anything, either. She might as well have been floating with the current, unable to discern her surroundings. She felt far, far away from everyone else.

Everyone except Malfoy. Hermione didn't dare look at him, but she _felt_ him there. He was sitting across the table from her, the distance expansive and small all at once. He was too close, but he was too far. She noticed every single, miniscule movement: the dull clink of the Malfoy ring as he tapped his finger against the table, the shift of fabric as he pulled an ankle over a knee, the tightening of muscles in his neck when he turned to look at another speaking. She didn't dare look at him, but she _knew_ every raise of his eyebrow, every downward pull of his lips.

Hermione pressed her fingernails into her chin, desperate to resurface. She was adrift, a speck of dust floating in a breeze. She had lifted her chin. When he looked at her, she lifted her chin. And when he touched her, every nerve was sent firing through her, nearly shaking her entire being. She _knew_ that feeling, the rush of being near someone, the fear of something more.

This wasn't something she could explain away. She thought about everything from that night; the expression she couldn't place when their eyes met, the wind being knocked out of her at every turn. It made no sense. No, she couldn't explain this. This had turned into something more than understanding, even forgiveness. She was entirely scrambled; somehow, she had become the jigsaw puzzle, and it felt like Malfoy was purposefully picking her apart.

All she knew was that she was in _very_ deep shit.

"Miss Granger?"

Hermione blinked, snapping her head up to Kingsley. He was watching her expectantly.

She was in very, _very_ deep shit.

She cleared her throat, dropping her hand and perhaps doing the only thing that she could possibly think of. Hermione turned her head to look at Malfoy.

To anyone else, his poker face was brilliant. Even to her most of the time, it was impossible to read. But there was the tiniest lift at the corner of his mouth, and his eyes glinted like fine silver.

Hermione exhaled sharply. He knew she hadn't heard a thing Kingsley said. And he thought it was _funny_.

"Erm…" she coughed out, unable to even pretend she was following the conversation.

"Can you heal Draco's injuries any further?" Luna asked next to her. She gently touched Hermione's arm, causing her to jump.

"Oh!" Hermione broke into a nervous smile, fully straightening in her chair. "Erm…"

She looked at Malfoy again, trying to analyze his face without noticing that light amusement made him something wonderful to watch. While the cuts had practically disappeared, there were clear bruises around his eyes and cheekbones still, dark and purpling rather grotesquely. It wasn't necessarily a fault of her healing; _he_ had been the one to wait so long to get attention.

"Well, no," she said simply. Hermione tore her eyes off him, addressing Kingsley. "But I can use glamour charms to cover them. They'll need reapplying, but it'll make his face…"

_Attractive. Handsome. A fine example of the male species._

"…fine," she mustered.

Ron blew a harsh breath through his lips as he stepped forward, joining Kingsley at the head of the table. "I mean, yeah, we should do that, but that's not really the problem, is it?"

He watched all of them expectantly, but seemed to find no recognition from any of them. "We're just dancing around this. The Death Eaters are _looking_ for someone unfaithful now, someone who is close to Daphne and Astoria, someone who has the ability to remove them from that side."

"Malfoy has an alibi," Ernie interjected. "He's not supposed to get back from his mission until tonight. There's no way they could place him there."

"I'm sorry, we're still talking about Death Eaters, right?" Ron dripped sarcastically. "When have they _ever_ been rational about anything?"

The room fell into heavy silence, and Ernie sat back dejectedly into his chair.

"Until they pinpoint someone who did this, _everyone_ will be under scrutiny," Ron continued. "Including Malfoy."

Hermione spared a glance to Malfoy, her chest tightening. He was frowning, practically attempting to set fire to the table with his glare. Something told her he was already aware of this, and that he didn't particularly enjoy the solution.

When no one said anything, Ron sighed, his shoulders falling. "What about Nott?"

"No," Daphne and Malfoy said together, and they quickly twisted to glower at each other. In between them, Theo's eyes had widened comically at their outbursts, his eyebrows at his hairline.

"Thanks, guys. I love when people answer for me."

"You weren't going to answer," Malfoy drawled, leaning back in his chair.

"I might have."

"What are your plans, Mister Nott?" Kingsley asked tersely.

Theo shrugged, leaning forward to place his forearms on the table. "I dunno. I assumed I would just go back. I have the Mark, so that makes the most sense."

Malfoy closed his eyes for a moment, and fully faced Theo, giving what Hermione could only describe as "the look." She was very familiar with it; she gave it to Harry and Ron countless times. "The look" was difficult to place, but often conveyed, "I need you to think about what you just said and adjust it to my liking."

Theo frowned, throwing his palms upwards in confusion. When Malfoy rolled his eyes across the room, he blinked in understanding, his mouth forming a small 'o' as the gears in his head turned.

"I mean, I don't _want_ to go back," Theo corrected quickly. "The Death Eaters suck. Definitely don't agree with what they do in any way. Quite frankly, they aren't even that _nice_ to me—"

"Theo," Daphne interrupted, her hand covering her eyes.

"But it's only logical to go back. Draco needs someone there he can trust."

"I think," Ernie said slowly, "they are proposing that _you_ be the one who saved Daphne and Astoria."

Theo's face darkened. "I'm fully aware of what they're proposing, Macmillan. I'm not a stupid Hufflepuff."

"Theo—" Malfoy warned.

"This is ridiculous," Daphne cut in. "Theo _needs_ to be there. He's just as good of a spy as Draco, and you'd acquire more intel." She raised a clinical brow, her gaze wandering over everyone threateningly before settling on Malfoy. "I'm not allowing another person I care about be put in danger on Draco's account."

Malfoy closed his mouth with a click; the way he twisted his head away from her seemed painful.

"With all due respect, Miss Greengrass," Kingsley said, "he is in danger regardless if he stays here or there." He matched her raised brow, his mouth turning with displeasure. "I am not willing to lose _all_ the intel we have in the event this doesn't get resolved."

Daphne narrowed her eyes but remained silent, her fingernails digging into the table. Theo sighed, his hand coming up to gently cover hers.

"Is there no one else?" Luna asked hesitantly, her eyes drifting between the two of them warily.

Theo shrugged, shaking his head lightly. "Blaise isn't here. And Pansy isn't a Death Eater."

"Yet," Daphne supplied tightly.

"It's either me or Draco," Theo continued, ignoring her. He turned his head, raising a brow at Malfoy next to him.

"You'll get some of my stuff?"

Malfoy crossed his arms, breaking the eye contact and reluctantly nodding once.

"Give my father a punch in the face while you're at it."

Malfoy snorted, a light smile gracing his features. "With pleasure."

"It's settled, then?" Kingsley asked brusquely. At a glance from Malfoy, he sighed, gathering some of the parchment littered throughout the table.

"Congratulations. You are officially Order members."

"Do I get a medal?" Theo blurted.

"You avoid imprisonment in Azkaban, Mister Nott, and with luck, you'll survive a second war," Kingsley deadpanned. He turned on his heel and started to leave the kitchen. "Boys, I need you upstairs."

Before he exited, Kingsley turned to face them all again, his eyes wandering across the room before settling on Hermione. "It seems you'll have an extra pair of hands, Miss Granger."

Hermione blinked, flicking her gaze to Daphne. The girl smirked at her, letting go of Theo's hand and standing gracefully as everyone else filed out of the kitchen.

* * *

As it turned out, Daphne was an exemplary potions partner, and Hermione regretted every moment she ever worked with Harry and Ron in rotation during school. It would have been a much better example of collaboration than either of the boys offered, and she was sure she would have actually learned something in the process. Daphne was good. She knew most of the recipes and instructions by heart, down to each nit-picky detail. And Daphne was nit-picky, too. She wasn't afraid to be.

"How many did you just throw in there?"

Hermione froze, her fingers poised over the cauldron hesitantly now. "I…it said a pinch."

Daphne rolled her eyes, quickly taking up a quill and grabbing Hermione's (or rather, Malfoy's) potions book. She frowned at the page, before quickly scribbling out the instructions and writing between in the margins in fine cursive.

"You count out five pairs now. Exactly." Daphne lectured, handing the book back to Hermione.

"They're gnat's wings. It would take forever to explicitly count that many."

Daphne pursed her lips, turning her attention back to her own cauldron. "And? Do you want the best potion or not?"

Hermione narrowed her eyes between the Slytherin girl and the book before slowly setting it down in mute agreement.

It wasn't annoying that Daphne was so thorough. In fact, Hermione appreciated it. And even more so, she appreciated how well they worked together. Outside of an occasional instruction or "can you pass an ingredient this way," there was very little talking. They were a well-oiled machine, never bumping into each other or otherwise in the way. And soon, the cabinets were nearly full with potions stock.

Even so, they kept working. From dawn to dusk, and then some. Astoria would accompany them sometimes. She would sit on the kitchen table, her long, thin legs dangling thoughtlessly as she told Daphne unnecessary gossip. Gossip in the sense that Hermione didn't care for it. Unnecessary in the sense that neither of the Greengrass sisters cared for it either; it was recognized as a simple past time, a hobby that Astoria participated in to distract from her one-sided vision.

"…and _then_ Tabitha had the _audacity_ to say that my hair was dry." Astoria rolled her eyes, scoffing.

"She obviously couldn't think of anything else to say," Daphne supplied carelessly, her eyes glassy as she poured the last of her batch of anti-paralysis potion into tiny tubes.

"And she obviously doesn't know anything about hair care," Astoria continued. "I mean, have you _seen_ it? I would _die_ if I was caught with curls as frizzy as hers."

Hermione looked up sharply, not willing to freeze the counterclockwise motion of her stirring. She couldn't help but glance at her own hair in the periphery of her vision, trying desperately to analyze its condition.

Astoria's one eye softened, her eyebrow slightly raising in concern. "I didn't mean—"

"Don't worry about it," Hermione interrupted. "I'm the only one allowed to have frizzy curls, anyway."

Astoria's mouth dropped, and stifled laugh came from behind Hermione's back. There was a light pat at her shoulder, and Daphne came to stand next to her, her smile brilliantly white. "We'll make a Slytherin out of you yet, Hermione," she chuckled softly.

It was strange to hear her name coming out of Daphne's mouth still. But as Astoria relaxed, her shoulders slumping and the one half of her mouth tilting upwards in a smile, and Daphne organized the ingredients for her next potion with a twinkle in her eye, she figured that it was something she could get used to.

When Astoria was in the kitchen, Hermione could forget everything else. It was easy to listen to her stories, the cut-throat insults she would throw at her classmates. It was fun when Daphne joined in, somehow becoming insulted on behalf of her sister about incidents that happened years before. They even began asking _her_ opinion, which always delighted them (her usual response of "It doesn't seem like they required your attention at all" was always met with "oohs" and "aahs").

But then Astoria would leave. And the kitchen would fall silent. And Hermione would think. She would think about Ginny. She would think about Harry. Ron and Ernie would come back late, and before they shuffled into the kitchen with drooping eyes and hung heads, she would think about them. The night always got darker when Astoria left, and the shadows seemed to swirl around her, even though she replaced the overhead lights a day ago.

She knew that Daphne thought too. She would sit at the kitchen table while she waited on cauldrons to brew, fingering at the splinters of wood with her pristine nails. She would play with the ends of her caramel hair, no longer perfectly straight and shiny, before pulling it into a low bun and lightly fidgeting with anything else nearby. Occasionally Daphne would look up from her thoughts, staring ahead into the hallway, and Theo would appear. He would always make some quip about Hermione's hair trying to swallow her whole, and then he would sit with Daphne. Often, they were silent, but Hermione always noticed the relief written plainly on Daphne's face when she looked at him. She also noticed her teeth clench, her fingers beginning to fidget again when he retired to bed.

So, when Daphne's gaze shifted toward the hallway tonight, Hermione assumed it was Theo. She turned to the side counter, analyzing their organized (alphabetically, of course) rows of ingredients, her hand hovering over them as she searched for the essence of daisyroot.

"Good morning, Draco."

That made her freeze. Hermione didn't dare glance over her shoulder; her hand remained poised in the air, and she couldn't remember what on earth she was looking for. Her thoughts shot through her by the millisecond; she hadn't seen him in a long time, longer than what was customary, anyway. Malfoy had insisted that she teach him the glamour charms, which made perfect sense. It wasn't as if he could apparate to Grimmauld Place whenever they faded. But now the hairs on her arms stood straight up, and the only thing she could hear was his slow approach to the kitchen table.

"You're not asleep either," Malfoy drawled, his voice sending shivers up her spine.

"I was merely being polite."

Hermione could see a small smile across Daphne's lips in the corner of her eye. She started to fruitlessly touch every jar, tube, and pot in front of her, desperately trying to find some ingredient out of place that needed reorganizing. Of course, nothing was out of place, but that didn't stop her.

"Is Theo asleep?"

"Probably."

"These are his things."

There was a slight thud against the table, and a black bag now entered Hermione's periphery. Daphne sighed, sitting back in her chair and folding her arms daintily over her chest.

"I'll give it to him," she said quietly.

There was a beat of silence. Hermione studied their jar of gillyweed like it would spontaneously sprout of pair of eyes at any moment and she didn't want to miss it.

"Granger."

She dropped the jar with a clack, jumping away from the counter and whirling to face him. In doing so, he knocked the wind out of her. There wasn't anything inherently different about him; Malfoy with his platinum hair, Malfoy with his slate eyes, Malfoy with his black clothes and dragonhide shoes. She wanted to believe that it was because she hadn't seen him in a long time. But the way her heart stuttered, the way her stomach did flips at being merely across the room from him did not explain that at all.

"Yes?" she squeaked out.

"Can you help me with something?"

Hermione narrowed her eyes, glancing at him and Daphne like there was a tennis ball being batted between them. But Daphne looked as confused as she was, and Malfoy was doing his best impression of a rock. Slowly, she nodded, and quickly followed him out of the kitchen.

"Since when do you ever _ask_ something of me?" Hermione asked suspiciously as he flicked on the light to the dining room.

Malfoy remained stoic, waving his wand around them. There was a familiar bubbling around them, the creaking of the house suddenly gone.

"And now you're casting a _muffliato_ ," she accused. "What on earth are you playing at?"

"Can you read these?" Malfoy asked pointedly, ignoring her and gesturing to a small pile of parchment on the dining room table.

Hermione frowned, leaving his side to examine the parchment. She reached to press down one of the curling edges closest to her, and Malfoy suddenly snatched her hand up and away.

"Hey—!"

"Do _not_ touch them," he warned, his grip strong on her wrist. He searched her face earnestly, and Hermione suddenly felt sick to her stomach; there wasn't just concern there, but fear. Her breath hitched at the idea of Malfoy being afraid of anything.

"Can you hear it?" he asked softly.

Hermione bit her lip, concentrating on their surroundings. It was faint, but as time passed, time where Malfoy didn't breathe at all, she could hear the unease around them, the sound that reminded her of the damn locket her and Harry carried for weeks.

"Ringing," she croaked.

" _Dark_ magic," Malfoy enunciated. "Wards against Muggleborns. If you touch that, you'd light on fire at the very least."

Hermione balked, and wrenched herself from his grasp. "Why would you ask me to read it?!"

"Because I need to know if I'm reading it wrong. And you're the smartest person I know."

Hermione folded her arms against her chest, glaring at him. "Flattery will get you nowhere."

"I wasn't trying to flatter you," Malfoy said simply. "It's a fact."

"A fact that will get me killed, apparently!"

"Granger—" Malfoy stopped himself, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Just do this for me."

Hermione opened her mouth to argue, but he dropped his hand, and he looked exhausted. His shoulders slumped like they were carrying the world.

"Please."

It was like when he asked her to heal Theo, when he asked her to call for Daphne instead of Madame Pomfrey at Hogwarts. Any retort Hermione had in her dissipated instantly, as if she let go of a feather in a light breeze. She slowly released her arms from her chest and nodded, stepping towards the table again and keeping as far away from the parchment as possible.

The paper was very old. No longer just yellowed with time, but also nearly disintegrated in certain spots of common wear. Hermione squinted at the faded ink, before looking up at Malfoy cautiously.

"These are runes. I…I can't—"

"Yes, you can," Malfoy said, and he placed his hands on the table to lean closer to her.

Hermione inhaled deeply, trying to make sense of the swimming symbols in front of her. She could hear him in the library now, his quill scratching carelessly on his own homework as he chided her abilities. _You have to memorize and remember._ She bit her lip so hard she was sure skin broke. _It's not a puzzle._

"…that one—"

Hermione stopped herself from pointing directly on the parchment when Malfoy stiffened, ready to tackle her away from the table. "Sorry. That one is…'artifact.' And that one is 'potion.'" Hermione retracted her hand, bringing it up to cover her mouth in thought. "They are both followed by 'dark,' making it an adjective, but we knew that, and…"

Malfoy had turned away from the table, nearing the end of the dining room and the beginning of the living room. Hermione watched his back, how his head hung as he stared at the floor.

"I can't read this last one," she called to his retreated form.

It was silent for a moment. "Do you see a prefix?" he asked quietly, hesitantly.

Hermione focused on the parchment again. "Oh! Yes, it's…"

Her voice died out, and her eyes widened. She backed away from the table, her fingernails digging into her palms. "That can't be right."

Malfoy didn't say anything, and Hermione rocketed towards him, grabbing his shoulder and ripping him around to face her. "Malfoy, tell me I'm wrong!"

But he only shook his head, his lips pressed into a thin line. "You're not."

"Reanimation?!" she spluttered. "That's impossible!"

"Then why is there a set of instructions detailing exactly how to do it?"

Hermione spun on her heel, leaning over the table again and scanning the parchment. He couldn't be right. It wasn't possible. But it stared her plainly in the face.

_Step One. Procure a pewter cauldron. Fill halfway with water and boil_ —

"I don't believe it," Hermione clamored, aggressively stepping away from the table.

"Think about it, Granger," Malfoy insisted, earnestly stepping toward her. "How else could they bring him back the first time?"

She blinked, trying to remember what Harry told her about that night. Hermione wasn't sure if he evaded the conversation, or if she couldn't remember the details now. _Merlin_ , it was six years ago. She was almost twenty now, and she couldn't remember anything; only everything that followed, every blow they took afterward.

"Harry didn't tell me much about it," she mustered.

Malfoy watched her, his head tilting slightly, and she could tell that he didn't quite believe her. She wasn't even sure if she believed herself.

"Regardless," he finally said, drawing himself up and approaching the table again. "I can't imagine there are that many magic rituals that bring people back from the dead."

Hermione eyed the parchment warily, before nodding once in agreement. "We can't let them go through with this," she whispered.

"They need a dark artifact in conjunction with the potion," Malfoy lectured. "I have no idea where it is, but that doesn't mean I can't find something that will tell me." He grabbed one end of the parchment and rolled it up before tapping it with his wand, making the pile disappear with a pop. For a moment, he stood silently watching the table surface, his jaw clenching tightly.

"If I find anything else," Malfoy started, turning to face her. "Will you help me read it?"

Hermione blinked, slightly taken aback. "You're better at reading runes than I am," she stated. When he didn't answer, she broke out into a nervous smile, letting out a short breath of air. "Partnership, not defense, remember?"

Something shifted minutely, and his eyes cleared, a melted silver that pooled and swirled without purpose. He swallowed and bit his tongue between his teeth. "I'd take your luck over mine."

Hermione inhaled deeply, opting to look down at her hands. "Well, we never did get to finish the class, right?"

She spared a glance at him, and he let out a sharp exhale, a large smile spreading across his face. Hermione's heart leapt – she couldn't stop from returning it – and she tried not to notice that his bottom teeth were slightly crooked, that there was a dimple on his right but not his left cheek. His eyes glinted like tinsel on a Christmas tree when he smiled like that.

"Leave it to you to bring it back to school somehow," he said, and her stomach nearly dropped at the teasing tone in his voice. She let out a laugh, shaking her head, before pressing her lips together and looking up at him again.

"Of course I'll help you."

Malfoy let out a sigh, and he stepped forward ever so slightly, bowing his head and staring at his feet. Feeling a surge of bravery, Hermione opened her mouth to request a "thank you," to tease him back, but stopped short when he snapped his head up and waved his hand between them. Suddenly, the low groans of the floorboards and the buzzing of the old lights came racing back.

"You'd think you two were _snogging_ back here with how long you've been—"

Daphne stopped short as she entered the dining room, her eyebrow quirking upwards. Realizing exactly how close they had gravitated towards each other, Hermione quickly stepped away from him entirely, hotness rushing to her cheeks. Malfoy swallowed, fisting his hands in his pockets and staring at Daphne, aside from the nearly imperceptible flick of his gaze to Hermione.

The Slytherin girl cleared her throat, blinking rapidly. "Your potion is ready for the daisyroot."

Hermione nodded quickly, avoiding both of their burning stares and retreating into the kitchen. While uncorking the essence of daisyroot, she tried to ignore the whispers that trailed through the hallway. She wasn't sure if she was relieved or more panicked when the front door slammed shut and Daphne reappeared in the kitchen, so she focused on stirring the potion in front of her instead.

"I'm going to bed," Daphne said. "I'll see you in the morning."

"Okay," Hermione nearly gasped out. "Good night."

She heard Daphne turn on her heel and approach the door frame, but she didn't hear her leave. Hermione threw a glance toward the exit, shock flitting through her to see Daphne watching her.

"He has a nice smile, doesn't he?"

Hermione stood still, dumbfounded. "What?"

"Draco."

She held her breath as her mind raced, the potion entirely forgotten as she tried to come up with a response that was acceptable. But Daphne didn't give her the time.

"I hope he spends more time with things that make him smile."

Daphne smiled sadly then, and disappeared into the dark without waiting for an answer.

* * *

Overall, her schedule during the day remained the same. Hermione woke up and made potions with Daphne for hours. On certain days she would apparate to Shell Cottage with Hannah Abbott, hauling cannisters of Wolfsbane Potion for Bill and Tylenol for Mr. Weasley. She often tended to Astoria's eye as well, especially when Daphne was in the middle of brewing.

It was at night where things adjusted. Instead of continuing the potions work, or even studying the healing textbooks that she knew by heart at this point, she was helping Malfoy. They poured over the runes on the withered parchment nearly every day, learning the hard way to use a _muffliato_ to minimize the detriment of the house.

"I'm _telling_ you, Malfoy, that does not mean 'man.'"

"Then what is it?"

Hermione looked at him through her lashes; he was getting testy with her. His eyes were solid like stone, and he was gritting his teeth so hard she was sure they would shatter. Her mouth opened and closed as she thought, and she threw her quill down in frustration, ignoring the ink on her fingers as she covered her face with her hands.

"I don't know, but—"

"You don't know."

" _But_ , in what world does 'the blood of his _man_ ' make any sort of logical sense?"

"A right-hand man."

"No! There would be an adjective after this rune, and there clearly isn't one."

"The writing is ancient, Granger. Maybe you weren't paying attention during History of Magic, and I'd hardly blame you as Professor Binns is a tragic misuse of a salary, but wizards often left things out when it was largely understood in their circle of colleagues."

Hermione narrowed her eyes, her teeth clicking against each other impatiently. "There are so many things wrong with that statement that I can't even fathom having the time to explain it all to you. And I _don't_ appreciate your tone."

"And what tone would that be, exactly?" Malfoy drawled, lazily resting his chin in his hand.

" _That_ one. Where you want to imply that I'm daft, but you don't have the nerve to say it out loud."

"I have the nerve."

"Go on, then."

"You're daft."

"Guys," Theo interrupted as he exited the guest bedroom. He rubbed heavily at his left eye and squinted against the light of the dining room. "Some people have a hard enough time sleeping without a loud, drawn out argument taking place in a house with paper-thin walls."

"I would quit while you're ahead, Nott," Ernie said from the living room. "I don't see this ending any time soon."

"First of all," Hermione gritted, standing from her chair in a forced attempt to, for once, tower over him. "I was the _only_ one paying attention in History of Magic, and Professor Binns happens to be very knowledgeable in the course material."

Theo coughed obnoxiously, unable to completely cover the "try-hard" that fell from his mouth.

"Secondly, if _you_ were writing the instructions to performing perhaps the darkest magic known to wizard-kind, wouldn't you be very clear in defining what exactly was required?"

"I would," Malfoy shot out, before she could continue, "but dark wizards are perhaps the most arrogant pieces of shit out there. If you can't understand the instructions contextually, then you shouldn't _be_ performing the spell at all."

"I wasn't finished," Hermione seethed, feeling her hair begin to rise with static. "Even _if_ a dark wizard was supposed to understand this contextually, in what barmy 'circle of colleagues' would they ever have the information base to infer an adjective in runic writing?!"

"Well, there is a fun little group that goes by the name of 'the Death Eaters,' now, isn't there?" Malfoy shouted, standing from his own chair. "I would certainly call them a circle of colleagues!"

"Right!" Theo yelled over top of them. "Draco makes a good point, a lot of them are colleagues and they really like choreography that includes circles, can you guys _please_ —"

"Theo, shut up!" Daphne called from the kitchen. "It's already difficult to brew Dittany without you inserting yourself into the conversation!"

"You call this a _conversation_?!"

"You've said yourself that the Death Eaters are imbecilic!" Hermione cried. "Calling them 'colleagues' is a gross understatement. They all have the combined intelligence of a dodo bird!"

"And yet they've somehow roped you into _three_ wars! That doesn't happen through sheer luck!"

"Malfoy!" Ron accosted. He thundered down the stairs, appearing more drained than anyone else. "Kingsley is _waiting_ for us, we have to—"

"Did I not say to give me a moment, Weasley?" Malfoy spat, his darkened gaze flashing away from Hermione.

"Yeah, you did, and that was ten minutes ago."

"Just go," Hermione said, gesturing wildly toward the stairs with her hand. "Arguing about this is clearly pointless. This parchment is so ancient, and the handwriting is terrible. The possibility of missing some small little detail is—"

Hermione stopped, her arm slowly lowering as she stared at the rune before her.

"What?" Malfoy asked quickly, his voice hoarse.

She brought her finger as close as she dared to the parchment, pointing at a small dot in the center that nearly conjoined with the rest of the rune surrounding it. "Do you see that?"

Malfoy quickly appeared at her side, lightly pushing her finger away and pressing against the parchment, his face so close he could probably touch it with his nose.

"Malfoy—"

"Give me two, and I'll say it again so you understand me clearly, Weasley, _two_ seconds," Malfoy snapped. He grabbed a fresh page of parchment and his quill, copying the rune for the millionth time that night, now including the dot at the center. When he finished, he stood straight again, dropping the quill unceremoniously and staring at the copy.

"I don't recognize that," Hermione said softly, inching closer to him to get a better look.

"You shouldn't." Malfoy sighed deeply, lightly tapping the onyx ring on his right forefinger. "The dot is common in darker texts. It redefines the original rune." He pointed at the weathered parchment, eyeing it carefully. "Without the dot, that rune means 'man.'"

Hermione tore her eyes from the rune, staring up at Malfoy anxiously. "And with?"

He swallowed. "It means 'murderer.'"

Even though she knew that Grimmauld Place was silent now, Hermione could hear the ringing of the parchment in front of her clearly. It vibrated against her, inside of her. She reached out weakly for her chair, sitting ungracefully with a huff.

Malfoy stared at the rune for a moment longer, a muscle in his neck tensing, before stepping away and approaching Ron. "Stay here," he shot back to her, and Hermione nodded numbly as Ron and Ernie stumbled after him up the stairs.

_The blood of his murderer._ The last ingredient of the potion. It made sense now. She remembered Harry coming back with a cut on his hand, and although he never explained it to her, she couldn't think of another reason for it to be there. They would have had the potion ready before he and Cedric Portkeyed there, leaving one ingredient left to brew.

But that didn't make sense. Harry was dead. There was no way for the Death Eaters to get his blood, which meant that the potion would be rendered ineffective. Hermione gnawed at her lip, tasting metal on her tongue.

There was a light touch at her shoulder, and Hermione jumped, looking up to see Luna standing next to her. Her eyes drooped, clearly still fighting back sleep, and her hair was pulled back in a long, frizzy plait.

"Ron sent me down. He seemed worried about you."

Hermione shook her head, pursing her lips slightly. "I'm okay."

Luna nodded once before pulling a chair close and sitting next to her. For a long moment, Hermione continued to stare at the parchment, frowning so hard that her temples began to burn.

"It doesn't make sense," she finally admitted.

Luna hummed, an innocent brow raising.

"'The blood of his murderer.' That's the last ingredient. But Harry is dead, and they know that. Why would they think this could work?"

Luna blinked, her eyebrows furrowing. "Well, what about Neville?"

Hermione twisted, giving her a confused look. "What about him?"

"Trelawney's first prophecy said that the one to defeat You-Know-Who would be born at the end of July, and to parents who defied him three times. There were two boys born that year who matched that description."

When Hermione didn't move, Luna shrugged lightly, her powdery eyes far away. "You-Know-Who picked Harry, but it could've been Neville."

Hermione stared at Luna for a long time, before grabbing her by the shoulders and shaking her lightly. "You're brilliant, Luna. Truly. Come with me."

She all but dragged Luna up the stairs and broke down the door to Kingsley's office, desperate to update them on the Death Eater's plans.

* * *

Kingsley ordered Neville's immediate relocation from Dartford to Shell Cottage. It was the safest place he could go of their safehouses, and Bill and Fleur would protect him well. He then instructed Malfoy to burn the parchment they acquired about the potion, and any other material he found throughout Malfoy Manor.

"You're asking me to potentially burn the entire library," Malfoy retorted.

"Do you have a problem with that?" Kingsley asked pointedly.

"I'm good at playing spy, Shacklebolt, but not that good. And I think my mother would turn over in her grave."

Kingsley grimaced, twirling his wand in his hands as he shifted in his chair. Malfoy considered him, before stepping towards his desk hesitantly.

"If this is truly their plan, then they already know what to do. Burning anything else would be a waste of time."

"That's not what I'm worried about," Kingsley muttered. "Until we find out where the artifact is and destroy it, Neville will not be safe."

The clock behind Kingsley's desk ticked maliciously against the silence. Hermione glanced throughout the room; all of them were there, somehow stuffed into the cramped space. Everyone avoided eye contact with each other, instead stiffly standing and analyzing the floor, the walls, the weird little helix structure on Kingsley's desk that no one knew the origin of. There was a sense of dread slowly filling the room, an uneasy anticipation.

"I have an idea of where it is," Malfoy supplied.

"An idea?" Kingsley said gruffly.

"I've found nothing explicit, but I have reason to believe that it's in the Department of Mysteries."

Kingsley blinked and sat back in his chair. He stared at Malfoy for a moment, before folding his hands under his chin and closing his eyes.

"What's the reason?" Ron asked hesitantly.

Malfoy sighed. "When I couldn't find anything related to the location of the artifact, I figured it must be common knowledge among the Death Eaters involved in the ritual six years ago. It would be classified information within the ranks, something that I could never gain access to even with my status now."

He paused, his tongue held between his teeth. "My father was involved six years ago. He's always been weak-minded, even in his prime."

Ron scrunched up his nose, frowning at Malfoy in confusion. Hermione couldn't help but feel the same. What about Lucius Malfoy being weak-minded have anything to do with—

"You're a Legilimens," she blurted, her eyes widening.

Malfoy twisted, looking over his shoulder to face her. His eyes betrayed him even before he answered.

"Yes."

"So you…" Ernie raised his hands, palms upwards, and his brow furrowed further as the gears turned in his head. "You read your dad's mind?"

"I did what I had to do," Malfoy said, sneering slightly.

"And you're sure it's there? In the Department of Mysteries?"

Malfoy nodded once, swallowing and casting his gaze to the floor.

"Hold on," Theo cut in, pushing himself off the wall. "Draco, there's no way they can get in there. It's crawling with Death Eaters. It'd be a death sentence to even try."

"Do you have a better idea?"

"Yeah, loads!" Theo snapped. "Why should we worry about it at all? All Longbottom has to do is stay hidden until the end of the war."

"We can't guarantee that," Kingsley said tiredly. "Even if we could, the artifact may fall into the wrong hands after all of us are long gone." He eyed each of them one by one and sat forward in his seat. "No one should be able to perform this ritual, _ever_. Destroying it provides security."

"What's the game plan, then?" Ernie asked.

No one answered. Hermione took a shuddering breath; she wasn't exactly a tactical master, and even she knew that this could be deadly. For everyone involved.

"There's a secret entrance that directly leads to the Department of Mysteries," Daphne said quietly.

" _Excuse_ me?" Kingsley demanded, his eyebrows at his hairline.

"I'd be surprised if you _did_ know about it, Minister," she amended, stepping forward from Theo's side. "My father used it all the time. Most Death Eaters who infiltrated the Ministry did." She glanced between Malfoy and Theo, raising a brow. "You knew about this, right?"

They both shook their head. Daphne sighed. "He brought me to work that way often when Astoria was young, so I wouldn't get in the way when my mother was taking care of her."

"Well, that's it," Theo grunted. " _My_ father largely regarded me as a disappointment, and undeserving of a 'take your child to work day.'"

Daphne pursed her lips. "I could bring some of you to it. If you avoid any Death Eaters patrolling, you'd be unnoticed."

"We could stage an attack to draw their attention," Ron suggested, his eyes suddenly alight.

"And retreat as soon as the artifact is destroyed," Ernie finished, standing excitedly from his chair.

Kingsley's eyes darted between them, before finally resting on Malfoy. "Could you direct Miss Greengrass to the location of the artifact?"

Malfoy tilted his head, his eyes narrowing. "I'd have to be among the ranks once the diversion starts. But I could make a map."

Hermione held her breath as Kingsley stood slowly from his chair and placed his hands on the desk, leaning into its stability. After a moment, he looked up at the room, meeting their expectant faces with wide eyes.

"This just might work."

* * *

Hermione nervously wiped her palms on her jeans as she crouched behind Ron. Her heart pounded erratically against her chest as she dared another glance around his shoulder to the Ministry of Magic. Even from their distance, she could see the crawling Death Eaters surrounding the entrance. It would take a miracle for all of them to be distracted by the attack Ernie was leading. Her fingers shook violently against her, and she swallowed hard, grabbing her wand from her back pocket to ground herself.

"What's the time?" Ron asked gruffly, twisting slightly to face her.

Hermione pushed back her sleeve and turned her wrist over. "We have about a minute."

Gravel crunched ahead of them as Daphne left the entrance of the alleyway to approach them. "The side of the Ministry is clear now. As soon as they first attack, we run for it." Her wide, brown eyes darted between them, betraying the unease she so easily hid otherwise. "Stay close to me," she whispered.

Hermione and Ron nodded simultaneously, and the three of them stumbled toward the entrance of the alley, packed behind each other, and waited. Hermione turned her wrist over once more. It was time.

There was a whizzing over their heads, and Hermione strained her neck to look up. She recognized Ernie leading a pack of brooms toward the Ministry, his blond hair blowing in the wind. As he approached, his arm reared back, his wand glinting against the darkening sky before thrusting forward. She saw the explosion of dust at the entrance before the sound came bounding toward them, shaking the ground and causing her to knock into Ron's back.

"Let's go!" Daphne shouted.

They sprinted ahead, ignoring the clamor of the Death Eaters as more Order members started to attack from above. Green streaks began shooting towards the sky, and stone was crumbling from the top of the columns, striking the ground with booming crashes. Hermione tunneled her vision, seeing only Ron in front of her, the wild waving of Daphne's hair.

When they reached the cover of the side wall, they stopped only for a moment. "Come on," Ron urged. "The quicker we are, the quicker we get out of here."

Daphne stalked the wall with long strides, even making Ron struggle to keep up. Hermione could hear her counting the brick panels under her breath, stopping abruptly once she got to twenty-six. As she examined the building, Hermione turned back the way they came, her wand drawn for a potential attack. Ron did the same on the other side. She heard Daphne take a deep breath, and saw in the corner of her eye that she had placed her palm at the center of a panel.

"Mudblood filth."

There was a deep rumbling, and suddenly the side wall split open, the bricks spinning over themselves to reveal a dark tunnel. Hermione raised an eyebrow, and Daphne swallowed once.

"Sorry."

"They aren't very creative," Hermione muttered.

"What d'ya expect?" Ron spat. "They're Death Eaters."

"Not even a 'Long reign You-Know-Who?'"

"It's just down this hallway," Daphne said, ignoring them. "Come on."

The secret entrance rattled shut as they entered, plunging them into darkness. The three of them lit the tips of their wands and began walking towards the end of the tunnel. Hermione tried not to notice the water that dripped down the walls, the pools that gathered at their feet. Above them, the Ministry continued to rumble and crack, spewing yellow dust from the ceiling. Daphne quickly reached for the door, turning the knob and ushering them inside before slamming it shut behind them.

Once inside, Hermione's lungs nearly stopped working. It was the same as before; long columns and rows of shelving, all hosting milky white spheres on dusty pedestals. The floor gleamed against the light from their wands, their obsidian reflections warped and twisted. Ron brushed her side, and she could feel his concerned gaze on her.

"Alright, Hermione?" he whispered.

"Yes," she said, flinching at the long echo of their voices. "It's just…"

She trailed off and looked up at him. He was biting his lip, his eyes wide even in the darkness.

"I know."

Another explosion above shook the floor, rattling the prophecies in their stands with dull clinks. Hermione inhaled sharply, grabbing Ron's sleeve and leaning into him as she lost her balance.

"Twenty-six rows up, right?" Ron asked quietly, staring ahead anxiously.

"Then a left until you reach the wall," Daphne answered.

They started to walk up the pathway between shelving, careful not to disturb the glassware. They froze at every sound, every shake of the room, hesitating until everything stilled again. Hermione thought that her wand would break between her fingers as she held it in front of her, that her breath was too loud, that the room could hear her heart beating. It felt like hours that they crawled up the rows, counting each together as they went.

At nineteen, there was a boom that was entirely too close.

"Shit," Daphne hissed, and suddenly Hermione was being pushed to the right, behind one of the shelves. "Put your light out!"

They crowded together, and then they were plunged in darkness. Hermione felt her stomach filling with lead; she wanted to ask what Daphne saw, if anything, but her mouth couldn't move. She quickly waved her wand, casting a _muffliato_ between the three of them and gasping for air.

"What is it?" Ron demanded. He froze when there was an echo of heavy footsteps throughout the room, surrounding them like a tidal wave.

"Dolohov," Daphne said breathlessly. "Two others."

Hermione's chest constricted. She blinked rapidly, trying to adjust to the pitch black surrounding them, but there was nothing. Even the ethereal glow of the prophecies was gone, leaving her entirely alone aside from Ron's arm pressed against hers. They couldn't see a thing.

"I know you're here," a low voice echoed.

There was a slap, and Hermione thought it could be Daphne covering her mouth. Ron stiffened beside her, and the sound of his breathing stopped entirely.

"How stupid do you think I am?" Dolohov continued. His voice radiated around them, shaking Hermione to her core.

"Of course, it took some thought. I didn't think you were reckless enough to attack the Ministry, not with us harboring it. I've been surprised before, but not like this."

"What do we do?" Ron whispered frantically.

"But then I remembered the parchment went missing."

Hermione squeezed her eyes shut. Of course. Malfoy never returned it. All that was left was ash in the fireplace at Grimmauld Place.

"I have to say, it was smart," Dolohov chuckled darkly. "Moving the Longbottom boy had foresight."

At that, Hermione opened her eyes again, her mind briefly stunned that the darkness remained. How could he have known that?

"Those blood traitors at Dartford are quite a stubborn bunch," he mused. The echo lingered, and then it was gone, leaving only malevolent, oppressive silence.

"But we'll break them. Just like we'll break you."

"Fuck," Ron gasped. "They have—"

"We have to move," Daphne hissed. "He's stalling."

Hermione felt paralyzed, her feet rooted to their spot. They needed a distraction, anything to get them moving again. She bit her lip, drawing blood that tasted foul. Dirty. Muddy.

"You guys go," Hermione said, surprised her voice didn't shake. "I'll draw him away."

"What?!" Ron balked. "No, we stick together!"

"Ron, I can't touch that thing. It will attack me. You two need to find the door and—"

"You're not leaving!"

"Even if Dolohov sends the other two after you, it will still distract him," Hermione said, all but pleading for him to understand. "He would never walk away from the opportunity to kill a Muggleborn."

She couldn't see him. She felt blindly for the lapels of his jacket, pulling him closer to her. "I'll be okay. I need to do this."

Without waiting for an answer, she pushed him away, into Daphne. "Go!" she ordered, cancelling the _muffliato_ and running in the other direction.

"It's pointless to keep hiding," Dolohov taunted. Hermione tried to focus on his voice, but she couldn't pinpoint where he was. She sneaked between the rows of shelving, keeping her head low, and when she felt far enough away from Daphne and Ron, she knocked one of the prophecies off its stand. It rolled right off the shelf and hit the floor with a ping, the glass twinkling like stars as the smoke settled and drifted away.

Hermione held her breath, waiting. Her wand was cutting into her palm painfully now. She closed her eyes, listening to the echoing footsteps. After a moment, they seemed to separate. One set started to come closer, no longer ripples of sound but clear thudding. Coming for her.

"Come out, come out," Dolohov called. Hermione was shaking now. Her heart was in her mouth. She couldn't control her chest. His voice was so near, no longer a reverb, allowing her to hear every rasp of his throat.

The footsteps came even closer, and Hermione was sure he was near the row she was hiding in. Unable to think, she stared ahead, daring him to light his wand.

The footsteps stopped. There was nothing but silence, darkness. Black.

"Found you," he whispered, so close she could feel his rancid breath against her face.

Hermione screamed and lunged forward, tackling Dolohov into the shelving. The foundation gave way, and they both fell with the hundreds of orbs that crashed to the floor. She fell straight into his chest and quickly rolled away, scrambling against the shards of glass and pushing herself up. Quickly lighting her wand, Hermione began to run.

She sprinted straight for the entrance, the one that Dolohov had come from mere minutes before. She waved her wand wildly toward the shelving, forcing the prophecies from the very top to fall from their stands. They left a trail of glass and dissipating dust behind her, and she could only hope it would delay him even more. The door was dead ahead; she dared to look behind her, but she saw nothing—

Hermione ran straight into something solid. She shrieked, and it grabbed a hold of her, keeping her in place. With her arms crushed between her torso and his, the lit end of her wand allowed her to see Dolohov's twisted smile, and his blackened eyes pierced through her.

"Caught you," he hissed.

Hermione gasped for air, suddenly aware of something wet against her shirt. Frantically, she looked down, only to see Dolohov holding the end of a knife. _That's strange_ , she thought. She couldn't feel it, but she knew the other end was inside of her.

Dolohov let her go, and she dropped to the floor, slamming her head against the shelf closest to them. Hermione squeezed her eyes shut, ignoring the clatter of her wand against the floor as she slowly reached for the knife hilt. It was stuck directly in the middle of her abdomen. She carefully wrapped her hands around it, pressing against the outside of the wound. She knew she shouldn't, but she wanted to rip it out of her.

"It must be my lucky day to run into you, Mudblood," Dolohov cackled.

Hermione weakly looked up from the knife. With her wand's light shining against the floor, she could only see the shadows of his face; he looked like a ghoul, a demon. She opened her mouth, tried to speak, but she could only shudder out short exhales of air.

"I think I'll take you to Malfoy Manor," he continued, tilting his head as he examined her. "It will be such a joy to watch you suffer."

Hermione jutted her chin weakly, her face hardening. "Y-you're luck-k ran out-t," she said hoarsely. "You'v-ve alread-dy lost."

As if on cue, a loud bang came from the back of the room. Dolohov nearly toppled over, and she could hear more prophecies shattering against the floor. At his bewildered expression, Hermione smirked.

"The art-ti…tifact is…gone," she mustered.

Dolohov's face pinched. His mouth screwed up into a horrifying grimace. "Then again," he said darkly, "perhaps your suffering can start now."

As he raised is wand, Hermione squeezed her eyes shut, seeing nothing but Malfoy's chandelier and Bellatrix's hair.

" _Crucio_!"


	9. Chapter 9

* * *

9

_“The whole world can become the enemy when you lose what you love.”_

_Kristina McMorris_

* * *

Draco knew something was wrong. He had always been good at that sort of thing. His mother always claimed that there were Seers in his ancestry, that the Blacks had an affinity toward Divination. He never particularly enjoyed the art – most of it was vague enough to be applicable to anything, and most of the Seers had lost the plot – but he never questioned her belief in it. Draco instead attributed it to a keen sense of intuition; in fact, he took pride in his ability to read situations, read _people_. He was very rarely wrong when it came to his gut.

He was missing something here, though. There had been a wave of energy that rippled through the Ministry minutes ago, which clearly was the artifact being destroyed. The Order retreated, as was planned. The Ministry was left in smoldering ruin, as he expected.

But the Death Eaters were gone too. He watched many of them apparate away, retreating, leaving him the only one standing on the steps leading up to the Ministry. He hadn’t expected that.

Draco squinted, his eyes adjusting against the night sky. Shacklebolt and Macmillan were waiting in the alley, with three brooms in tow. They were supposed to be gone by now, but he had been staring at them for a long time. They were supposed to ride with Daphne, Weasley, and Granger after the artifact was destroyed back to Grimmauld Place. But the three of them hadn’t shown up yet.

It wasn’t something to be inherently worried about. The Department of Mysteries was confusing; it was easy to lose one’s way. And yet, Draco couldn’t help but circle back to the most concerning thing he had noticed throughout the attack on the Ministry.

He hadn’t seen Dolohov once.

Draco fisted his hands into his pockets and kicked at the lingering rubble resting in front of him. It skipped down the steps, landing closer than he intended with its path. Dolohov could have retreated with the others, of course. In fact, that was more than likely. Outside of Dolohov, Draco and Rabastan were the only ones who could order a retreat. Rabastan was – thankfully, the git – injured, making his presence at the Ministry impossible. And since _he_ hadn’t called for a retreat, Dolohov must have.

Draco exhaled sharply, looking up at the alley again. He knew something was wrong. He was very rarely wrong. And perhaps most importantly, he _loathed_ when his intuition proved too little to clarify exactly _what_ was wrong.

There was a brush against his leg, and Draco looked away from the alley to see an ethereal, blueish specter at his feet. He frowned, unable to place its form until it looked up at him; that’s when his stomach dropped.

It was a fox. Daphne’s patronus.

“Fuck.”

The fox bounded through the rubble ahead of him, never pausing to see if he was following. But Draco already knew where it was going. He broke out into a sprint once the stone fragments cleared, praying to whatever could hear him that he was fast enough. Even his intuition had a limit, and he had absolutely no idea what was waiting for him. But with every slap of his shoes against the marble, his mind raced twice as fast.

_Not her. Please not her._

He flung himself down the stairs after the fox and slammed open the door to the Department of Mysteries. Slicing his wand through the air and lighting it, he stalked after the fox, his heart stuttering when it finally turned to face him, sitting with its tail curled around it, its expression blank. He wasn’t prepared when it dissipated into wispy smoke, when he saw what it led him to.

Dolohov was sprawled on the floor, his eyes glassy and toward the ceiling. Weasley was pacing a couple meters ahead, his face brilliantly red as he stared at the ground, muttering to himself. Daphne was crouched on the floor ahead of Dolohov, her back to him, but he could hear her sobs echoing throughout the room. When she turned, tears streaming down her face, Draco didn’t even register her.

Granger was white. No, she was worse than that. She was nearly translucent against the blackened floor, her hair splayed around her head haphazardly. Her entire body spasmed periodically, like her muscles were fighting to turn her inside out. Her eyes were closed. Her eyes were closed. Her eyes were closed.

The knife gleamed against the light from his wand. There was entirely too much blood, and he could see blackened veins spidering from the wound across her stomach.

“Draco,” Daphne gasped out. “I…she won’t talk to us anymore. She needs to stay awake, I’ve never healed anything like this before, but Ron said she has, she needs to tell me what to do to get the poison out. I don’t have it memorized, _fuck_ I should have it memorized but if I do it wrong it’ll get worse and I need her to tell me—”

“Malfoy,” Weasley called, and Draco blinked, tearing his eyes away from her stomach to see him approaching. “Argue with her, call her a Mudblood, I don’t _fucking_ care, get her to wake up.” Weasley’s eyes were brimming with tears, and he pressed his lips together as they began to tremble.

Draco nodded numbly. He felt like he was floating as he approached, and his knees stung as they dug into the floor. Slowly, he reached out and brushed her hair from her face, delicately grazing her cheek in a way he never allowed himself to do before. He tilted his head so they would be eye to eye, and willed himself to speak.

“Granger.”

Her eyes fluttered, and she spasmed again, making him cup her cheek to stabilize her head. He felt frantic, but everything was moving so slowly around him. He didn’t even know what he would say.

“Granger, you have to help me,” he tried again.

Her forehead furrowed, and then her eyes opened; dark and inviting and kind. Draco tried to ignore the stuttering of her breath, focusing only on her face.

“Draco?”

He blinked, inhaling sharply. Her voice was heavy, her tongue slow to work. Draco felt his heart speed up, the fog in his mind suddenly clearing. She sounded exactly like his mother. For a moment, he saw her instead, her platinum hair matted and tangled, her blue eyes begging him for everything to end.

“It’s me,” Draco assured, shifting closer and thumbing at her cheek. “I need your help with something, okay?”

Granger squeezed her eyes shut, shaking her head. “I can’t…I’m tired—”

“I know,” he hushed. “But…”

He looked up hesitantly at Weasley, racking his mind for anything to keep her with him. “Daphne was poisoned,” he lied, gazing at her again. “I don’t know what to do, and I need your help.”

Granger opened her eyes again, concern somehow drawing over her features. “D-Daphne?”

She cried out then, unable to fight her limbs as they shook. Draco’s eyes widened, and his other hand shot forward, protecting her head from hitting the floor.

“Malfoy—” Weasley started.

“I know,” he shot out, his tone darker than he intended. “Yes, Daphne,” he said softly. “What’s the first thing I have to do?”

“I-I…don’t kn-now…”

“Yes, you do,” Draco insisted, his chest constricting. “There isn’t anything you don’t know.”

Granger gasped, closing her eyes again and hissing through her teeth. “You s-should draw the p…poison out.” Her hand lifted, her forefinger outstretched and drawing something in the air. “S-spiral around the s-site,” she instructed hoarsely.

Draco twisted, meeting Daphne’s red-rimmed gaze. “What about the knife?” she asked frantically.

“Granger, something’s blocking the site,” he said, not taking his eyes off Daphne. “What do I do?”

He felt her gaze on him, and he slowly looked back at her. Her face was strangely calm, her eyes drifting over his face slowly. Draco swallowed; he knew that she knew. Daphne wasn’t the one poisoned. It was her, and she knew it.

“Remove it,” Granger instructed.

Daphne shifted immediately, picking up her wand and staring at the wound determinedly. “Ron, I need you to do it,” she ordered. “I won’t be able to start in time if I do.”

Weasley stumbled forward, kneeling opposite of Daphne. He delicately placed one hand on the hilt of the knife, and the other on Granger’s stomach, bracing her. Draco could see him whispering to himself, the word “sorry” repeated over and over in the silence around them.

“Now,” Daphne said, tilting her wand downward.

Weasley ripped the knife straight up, and Granger screamed. Draco immediately brought her closer to him, his forehead nearly touching hers as he stopped her from squirming away. At first, he thought Weasley was still whispering to himself, but then he recognized it as his own voice, hushing her.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

“I need gauze,” Daphne called loudly.

“Her bag,” Draco said immediately, lifting one hand to point at the discarded purse a few meters away. Weasley scrambled to grab it, procuring the gauze and handing it over to Daphne.

“Draco,” Granger whispered, and his heart nearly stopped. He lifted his head to see the entirety of her face, how she stared at him like he was the only one there.

“I’m here, I’m not leaving,” he repeated. He was in Malfoy Manor again, cradling his mother and telling her that he wasn’t leaving, that he was staying with her, that everything would be okay.

“I…want to go home.”

“We’ll leave soon, I promise. Just stay with me, okay?”

“I want to see Harry.”

Draco froze. His mouth filled with lead. “No, Granger, you can’t—”

Another wave of spasms rolled through her, and she shrieked so loud it hurt his ears. Daphne threw herself over Granger’s torso, stopping her from undoing the gauze entirely.

“Hermione,” Draco begged, his voice hoarse. “You have to make it. Stay with me, please.”

But her eyes closed, and everything was hazy. There was a loud buzzing surrounding him, alienating him. He felt a hand against his shoulder, and Daphne was saying something as she stood up, practically dragging him with her. Draco shifted, picking Hermione up and standing on shaking legs, and then he was racing with Daphne and Weasley out of the Department of Mysteries. He barely looked ahead, his eyes trained on Hermione’s face as they stumbled through the rubble, out of the Ministry of Magic.

She couldn’t go. The thought terrified him. He felt sick to his stomach as they sprinted toward Shacklebolt and Macmillan. He couldn’t lose someone else.

* * *

Hermione awoke to a painful prodding at her stomach and a grating voice in her ear. She didn’t dare open her eyes, grimacing at the pressure against her; it felt like someone was digging into her, and it made her want to gag.

“I’m just saying, the two of them have been on and off more times than I can count, and that isn’t including all the times that I _don’t_ know about.”

Theo. Hermione peeked open an eye, seeing his curly mop of hair in the corner of the room. He was lounging carelessly in the chair, his feet propped and crossed on the desk. At another nauseating press to her stomach, Hermione shut her eye again, biting her tongue hard.

“I’m sure you’re aware of every time they’ve been together,” Daphne responded. Her dainty fingers lifted from Hermione’s stomach, and she let go of her tongue, relaxing slightly. “They aren’t exactly quiet about it.”

“That doesn’t change the fact that Pansy and Blaise is worse than Pansy and _Draco_ ,” Theo enunciated. “And that’s saying something.”

Daphne sighed deeply. Hermione heard her feet leave the bedside, and there was a clink at the other end of the room. “I’d rather you get to your point more quickly,” Daphne said tiredly, her footsteps returning. Hermione couldn’t help but flinch when a sudden cold substance was placed on her stomach.

“That is my point. Why is she going to Italy if they are terrible together?”

“I don’t know. Pansy is Pansy. I can’t read her mind.”

“You must have some idea.”

Daphne’s hand was gone again. “I don’t,” she replied, the frustration clear in her tone. “Maybe she likes him.”

“Doubtful.”

“Maybe she just wants to get out.”

The room fell heavily into silence for a moment. “It’s dangerous to travel,” Theo said quietly.

“Draco told her that.”

“She’s not thinking things through.”

“I’m sure Draco told her that too,” Daphne sniffed.

“And she’s still going?”

Daphne huffed, leaving the bedside again and throwing something with a clank. “Draco’s still talking to her, isn’t he? I don’t know why you’re questioning me about this.”

It was silent again, until there was a creak, another set of footsteps. “I’m worried about her,” Theo said softly. “And she won’t listen to me.”

“She listens to Draco over me,” Daphne said after a moment.

“He can’t spend all his time trying to convince her. What if you—”

“I’m not thinking about this right now,” Daphne said snappishly.

Theo didn’t answer. There was a shuffling between them.

“Can you get a pain-relieving potion from downstairs?” Daphne said, her voice suddenly exhausted. “It’s labelled, in the cabinets.”

Theo’s footsteps shifted for a moment, then crossed the room. The door creaked open, before shutting firmly behind him. Hermione hesitantly opened her eyes, squinting against the sun floating through the window at the side of the room. Daphne was standing at the desk, her back to her.

“Fuck,” Daphne whispered, aggressively grabbing a rag. She crouched over, finally turning from the desk with a ceramic bowl. With her eyes trained on the water inside it, being careful not to spill any, Daphne didn’t notice that Hermione was staring at her until she reached the bedside again.

“ _Fuck_!”

Daphne dropped the bowl and it crashed to the floor. Hermione winced, flinching away out of instinct.

“Sorry, I—”

“You could have told me you were awake!” Daphne shouted. But her face was alight, a smile spreading across her face. “You scared me to death!”

Hermione allowed a weak smile in return. “I’m sorry, I didn’t—”

Daphne turned on her heel, ripping open the door and sticking her head out. “Theo!” she yelled. “Get another bowl of water!”

They waited a moment, until “I’m not your _damn_ maid!” floated up the stairs. Daphne scoffed, leaving the door open and quickly returning to Hermione’s side.

“How are you feeling? Don’t sit up just yet, I have to wash the wound and wrap it again, but can you move everything else? How’s your head—?"

“Daphne,” Hermione interrupted, reaching for her hand. She stared at her seriously, and Daphne leaned forward, biting her lip. “I feel like shit.”

Daphne closed her eyes, hiding a laugh behind her hand. Then she leaned forward, holding Hermione’s face with clear relief in her dark, brown eyes.

“I’m so happy you’re alright,” she whispered earnestly.

Hermione’s smile spread even further. “Thanks to you.”

“Is there anything else I can get you, your _majesty_?” Theo kicked the door open further as he carried a new bowl and about a thousand different tubes in his arms, only to stop dead in his tracks.

“Well, well, cats do have nine lives,” he teased, continuing forward and dropping everything on the desk with a clatter.

“ _What_ are you doing?” Daphne demanded, straightening and placing a hand on her hip.

“I couldn’t find the pain-relieving potion—”

“It was labelled!”

“I’m not taking the time to _read_ everything!” Theo argued.

Hermione stifled a laugh, her hand covering her stomach as her pain spiked. Daphne rolled her eyes. “Of course,” she scoffed, crossing the room and grabbing the bowl of water.

“You can’t blame me entirely. There are about a hundred of these things in there.” Theo picked up one of the vials, squinting at it slightly.

Daphne looked as if she wanted to strangle him when she returned to the bed, and Hermione couldn’t help but smile again. She gave a slight shrug, and Daphne rolled her eyes again, shaking her head as she delicately went over the wound with the rag. Hermione hissed at the chill, a shiver running through her when the water touched her skin.

“How long have I been out?” she asked cautiously.

“A couple days,” Daphne answered. She turned to the bedside table, grabbing a roll of gauze.

“You missed literally everyone,” Theo supplied, folding his arms across his chest and leaning against the desk. “You’d think there was a party in here.”

Daphne shot him a glare, and he held out a hand in defense. “A _nice_ party. One of those ‘thank Merlin you’re alive’ ones.”

“Where is everyone now?”

“Ron and Ernie are recruiting,” Daphne said shortly. “Luna’s…” Her hand waved upward, gesturing dismissively. “Somewhere.”

“Probably talking to a wall,” Theo muttered, only to flinch at both of their glares.

Hermione bit her lip as Daphne finished wrapping her stomach, uncertainty making her feel much heavier than she was. She slowly pressed her hands into the mattress, wincing as she propped herself up. Their conversation ran through her mind, and a fire ran through her veins, whispering in her ears with licking flames to ask.

“And…Malfoy?”

Their reactions were subtle, but Hermine should have expected that. They were Slytherins, after all: masters of disguise and analysis. Daphne slowed as she placed all the healing supplies on the bedside table, her gaze becoming unfocused only slightly. Theo’s shoulders rose a millimeter, his fingers tightening their grip around his forearms.

“The Manor,” Daphne said tightly, her pace resuming as before. “Putting out fires.” She studied Hermione then, a brow raising clinically. “What do you remember?”

Hermione tilted her head. If she was honest, she didn’t remember much. She knew Malfoy had been there, in the Department of Mysteries. Everything was blurry when she tried to picture it, picture him. But the way Daphne asked _that_ made her feel as if there was something she was missing.

“I just wanted to thank him,” she said casually, not completely sure if it was a lie. “I remember him being there.”

They stared at her a moment longer before Daphne nodded. She then grabbed a vial, holding it up in front of Hermione with a stern look. “Take this, and rest. I’ll send Luna up as soon as I find her. She’ll want to see you.”

Hermione nodded, trying to ignore the exchanges they threw each other as they left the room, shutting the door firmly behind them.

* * *

“So you’re not going to do anything.”

Hermione rubbed at her temple, refusing to open her eyes. Her head felt like it was splitting. She didn’t need to see Ron’s furious gaze anyway.

“Don’t put words in my mouth,” Malfoy snapped. “I said that there is nothing I _can_ do.”

“Fine,” Ron growled. “We’ll just go and save them. Maybe we’ll blow up your house in the process.”

“Mate—” Ernie started desperately.

“No, this is bloody ridiculous!” Ron shouted, and Hermione heard a shove, a shuffle across the table. “A whole safehouse was ransacked! We’ve broken into the Manor before, and we’ll do it again.”

“I am not exaggerating when I say that is the stupidest thing you’ve ever said,” Malfoy said plainly.

“It’s better than your suggestion! You’re saying we shouldn’t do anything!”

“You aren’t hearing me, Weasley.” A chair scraped against the tile, and Hermione winced, pressing into her temple harder. “I’m saying that you _can’t_ do anything. Rabastan has increased security, and he doesn’t trust anyone. _I_ have to be fucking careful around him, and I’m technically his equal.”

“I’ll say,” Ron jeered. “Some Death Eater scum—”

“Ron!” Ernie shouted.

“They are going to die in _your_ house!”

“Yes, _my_ house!” Malfoy yelled. “Clearly, you don’t remember barely getting out by the skin of your teeth last time!”

Hermione peeked an eye open, grimacing against the light. Malfoy was at the end of the table farthest from her, glowering across it. She could feel Ron’s blistering gaze behind her head; she found herself considering which glare would be worse to endure.

“That’s it, then?” Ron finally scoffed. “You’re okay with _our_ people being tortured under your roof?”

“Hardly,” Malfoy seethed. “Don’t presume to know my feelings about the matter.”

“Fine. I’ll make sure I don’t presume anything about your allegiances, either.”

Malfoy’s face twisted, sending a flit of shock through Hermione. She dropped her hand, fully sitting up in her chair. She hadn’t seen him this angry in a long time; so long, in fact, that she forgot how intimidating, how dangerous he could be. Her eyes were locked on him, waiting for a wordless hex to be thrown across the room.

But his gaze shifted, and Malfoy’s eyes were on her. The storm lightened ever so minutely. Then he twisted on his heel, opening the back door to the porch and slamming it behind him.

“You need to apologize,” Ernie said quietly.

Ron shifted behind her. She could hear his arms fold across his chest.

“That was low,” Ernie continued, “to throw his position in his face.”

“You’re on his side?” Ron asked gruffly.

“He’s doing what he’s always done. Just because it so happens to be the opposite of what you want to do this time doesn’t mean he’s Death Eater scum.”

“He’s—!”

“Draco is reporting intel,” Ernie enunciated. “That intel implies that it’s dangerous to break into the Manor.”

“It’s always dangerous.”

“The risk is too great. We’d lose more than we’d gain.”

It was hot against her back. Ron was always good at somehow increasing the temperature when he was angry; sometimes she’d leave the Gryffindor common room with sweat dripping down her forehead.

“‘Mione?”

Hermione closed her eyes. She shouldn’t have left the bedroom today. Her stomach felt fine; fantastic, actually. Daphne had a talent. But her head was pounding, and she fisted her hands to hide the shake of her fingers. She could feel Dolohov’s curses running in waves through her body. It wasn’t an unfamiliar feeling; the prolonged exposure to the Cruciatus curse was entirely too familiar, in fact. Hermione swallowed, forcing her muscles to comply.

“I don’t know,” she said thickly. “I think you need to talk civilly about it with Kingsley when he gets back, instead of arguing about it in front of me.”

The floor creaked slightly, and then Ron was next to her. He kneeled against the table, resting his arm against it heavily. His other hand came to her arm, soothing her gently.

“Are you alright?” he asked, his eyes wide.

“I’m fine,” she insisted. “I want to brew in peace.”

She forgot how perceptive Ron was sometimes. He stared at her a moment longer, sad disbelief filling his features.

“Okay,” he said softly. “We’ll go.”

Hermione nodded, patting his hand when he squeezed her shoulder as he stood. Ernie did the same, his lips barely lifting in apology as he followed Ron out of the kitchen. As soon as she heard their footsteps fade, Hermione collapsed into herself, her head resting against the table as her limbs convulsed. She let out a small cry, wrapping her arms around her stomach and trembling, her muscles rippling as if suddenly alive, like snakes crawling through her. She needed Tylenol, but it was in the bedroom; too far away to reach. Even her wand, simply resting on the table in front of her, was too far.

After what felt like ages of sitting immobile through fire, her body finally calmed. Hermione lifted her head, inhaling deeply through her nose. The fits were worse than she remembered them being. She wouldn’t be surprised if Ron remembered them too, when she would suddenly become far away before curling onto the couch in Shell Cottage, shaking as the ghosts of Bellatrix’s spells revisited. She would always tell him and Harry to leave her alone, ignoring the flashes of anxiety that came across their faces as they left the room. It was hell then, and it was hell now.

Hermione sighed, grabbing her wand and flicking it, waiting with an open palm until the Tylenol came whizzing into it. She quickly dropped a pill into her hand, popping it into her mouth and standing on shaking legs to get water. As she filled a glass and gulped it down, the back door opened again, shutting much more quietly than before.

She hadn’t seen him since the day at the Ministry. While she felt assured that he was “putting out fires” as Daphne said, there was a small niggling in the back of her mind, whispering hatefully that he was avoiding her. Hermione set down the glass, biting her lip as she finally faced him.

“Alright, Malfoy?”

His mouth was pulled downwards. He didn’t look up, instead focusing intently on buttoning his suit jacket. She knew he could do it blindfolded.

“Yes, Granger,” he answered. Clipped.

Hermione tapped her finger against the counter, ignoring its spastic jumps in between her more controlled movements.

“Ron has tunnel vision sometimes,” she decided, her voice soft. “He didn’t mean what he said earlier.”

Malfoy finally looked up, raising a brow. He appeared absolutely done with the conversation, and she was completely aware of how one sided, how static it was. His eyes travelled across her face slowly, and there was a dip, a dip she knew to be toward her stomach. Hermione stepped forward, hoping the counter covered where her wound would be, and lifted her chin, waiting.

She didn’t know why it was so difficult to thank him all of a sudden. Why she couldn’t find the words. He was captivating sometimes; under the light, like this, she could see a thin, white line under his left eye, a half-moon scar from the night of Daphne and Astoria’s defection. Hermione found herself tracing the scar, following the curve to the line of his nose, down to his Cupid’s bow. Her eyes stayed too long, entirely too long there, and she blinked, meeting his eyes again. His eyebrow was lifted even higher.

_Merlin_. Her mouth was dry.

Malfoy sniffed, throwing his gaze to the ground, and striding toward kitchen exit. Hermione balked.

“Wait, Malfoy—”

“I’m busy, Granger,” Malfoy drawled, pausing to throw an irritated look over his shoulder. “Unless you actually have something important to say, I’ll be going.”

Hermione frowned. She took a step back, and her hands found each other, her fingers fiddling between tremors.

“I just wanted to thank you,” she said quietly, becoming more unsure of herself by the second.

There was a creak in the hallway, and Malfoy twisted sharply. Daphne appeared in the entrance, holding multiple parcels under her arms. Her dark eyes shifted between them slowly, her face impassive.

Malfoy swallowed, only the side of his face visible to her now. “It was nothing,” he said lowly. “Don’t let it inflate your already oversized ego.”

Hermione’s mouth dropped open in shock. Before she could even formulate a thought, he was gone, brushing past Daphne and disappearing into the hallway. Even when she could formulate a thought, it wasn’t anything stellar.

_What the fuck?_

She hadn’t done anything. In fact, _she_ had been the one to get injured. _She_ had been the one to thank him for helping her – unwarranted. She stood frozen next to the counter, unable to wrap her head around it. Why on earth would he have said that? She hadn’t done a thing to him at all.

Daphne slowly walked toward the counter, gently placing the parcels there. Her lips were pressed together in a thin line, and she didn’t look at Hermione for a long time.

“You should be resting,” she finally said primly.

Hermione’s jaw clenched. She whirled to the cabinet, ripping it open and grabbing the mortar filled with floxweed and the matching pestle. Setting it on the counter with a clank, she began to grind. After a moment, she began to imagine that she was grinding Malfoy’s face instead. Who was he to insult her for an attempt at gratitude?

“I was telling you nicely that you need to rest, you know.” Daphne’s voice cut through her, and Hermione gritted her teeth.

“I’m not a child, Daphne. I know when I’m being bossed around.”

She felt Daphne’s eyes narrow at her side. “I didn’t say you were a child.”

“An owl, then,” Hermione shot out. “I don’t appreciate being ordered about.”

“Watch it, Hermione,” Daphne snapped.

“Watch what?” Hermione twisted, fixing Daphne with a fiery glare. She could feel her hair beginning to stand, cracking at the ends. “I’d prefer not to rot in the bedroom, even with your nagging.”

Daphne tilted her head slowly, her eyes flashing. “Don’t take it out on me,” she warned.

“I wouldn’t dare,” Hermione replied, focusing again on the mortar and pestle with greater ferocity. She bit into her cheek, ignoring the already shattered remains of the floxweed and continuing her attack. Were they back to square one, then? Did it all mean nothing? She wouldn’t be surprised. It would be just like Malfoy to deceive her.

“You’re just as bad as him.”

“ _I’m_ just as bad as _him_?” Hermione hissed, rounding on Daphne. She slammed the pestle onto the counter. “No,” she continued. “I’m not. _I’m_ not an arse simply because I want to be. _I_ don’t insult people for no reason.”

Daphne lifted her chin, pursing her lips. “You just got done doing that.”

Hermione blinked. The fire in her cheeks faded slightly.

“Why is he avoiding me?” she blurted. “Why is he angry with me?”

“He’s not angry with you.”

“Then with what, if not me?”

Daphne stared at her, but her eyes were far away, seeing something else. “Draco is angry about a lot of things. He always has been.” She sighed, turning back to the parcels and unwrapping the one nearest to her. “It’s an unfortunate Malfoy trait.”

“Why take it out on me, then?” Hermione asked, nearly desperate. She inhaled sharply, crossing her arms across her chest. Because it wasn’t just the insult. It wasn’t just the avoidance. He looked at her differently, now. There was nothing there; impassive, like stone, like he used to be. She didn’t even realize something was there until it was gone, and now she felt empty without it. Her hand flew upward, rubbing at the bridge of her nose, and she squeezed her eyes shut.

“What did I do?”

Hermione didn’t want to go back. She didn’t want to throw walls around herself. She didn’t want to hate him again.

She didn’t realize that Daphne approached until there was a small hand at her shoulder. Hermione opened her eyes, only to see compassion set clearly on the girl’s face.

“Do you know what a snake’s first instinct is when they’re approached?”

Dumbly, Hermione shook her head.

“They recoil, then attack.” Daphne tilted her head then, a sad smile lifting. “Even when it’s someone with good intentions.”

Everything was still. “How…how do I—” Hermione exhaled sharply, cursing inwardly. “How does one approach, then?” she asked quietly.

“You gain their trust.”

Hermione’s heart sank. She backed away, letting Daphne’s hand drop, and she faced the counter again, gripping the end tightly. She wasn’t sure anymore if she was shaking because of the curse, or because she was thrown off an axis.

“I thought I already had it,” she finally said.

Daphne clicked her tongue. “Draco’s trust comes and goes,” she muttered, going back to the parcel. “Waxes and wanes.” She glanced at Hermione from the corner of her eye, considering her. “Talk to him.”

Hermione bit her lip, ready to refuse.

“Don’t let him recoil.”

Hermione turned to her sharply. She could hear her watch ticking in the silence, and she counted each one. Finally, she nodded once, and Daphne smiled.

* * *

She couldn’t sleep. It was late; the moon was high, bright against a black canvas. Hermione sat at the windowsill, her legs dangling, barely grazing the floor. Usually, she would be captivated by the sky, unable to take her eyes off the winking stars. But she was staring at the brilliant white below, standing at the ledge of the back porch.

It was rare to see him in white. Even from here, a story above, she could tell the shirt was pristine, wrinkle-free from lack of wear. Somehow, his hair didn’t match at all. It shone against the moonlight; brighter than any light she knew of. He was impossible to miss, not that he didn’t always catch her attention now.

Hermione took a deep breath, swallowing down a lump of lead from her throat.

_Talk to him. Don’t let him recoil._

She tiptoed down the stairs, her bare feet padding lightly against the dark, hardwood floors. She crept past the living room, looking in just enough to see Ron and Luna asleep on opposite couches, the dying fire bathing them in an orange glow. She didn’t bother turning the light on in the kitchen, finding her way through the darkness by only the blue beams that passed through the bay window. Slowly, she pushed open the back door, closing it behind her with a creak.

If he noticed, there was no indication. His legs were crossed, barely noticeable in the dark, and he rested his forearms against the porch ledge, his shoulders high and tense. She noticed the smell first; foul smoke, surrounding and constricting her. Then she saw it: a wreath of grey blowing outward, encircling his head. His left hand dropped, the white stick between his fingers, burning at the end.

Hermione didn’t bother with being quiet. She approached his side, matching his stance and folding her arms over the ledge. Her eyes adjusted quickly, and she counted the small lights across the way, houses asleep in the quiet.

“Where did you find that?” she asked, barely mustering above a whisper. The night begged not to be disturbed around them. She turned her head, looking up at him and fighting against a catch in her breath.

“Have to get Tylenol from somewhere,” he replied. His voice was raspy with smoke, low with exhaustion. He didn’t return her gaze, staring straight ahead.

“They aren’t good for you.”

His eyebrows shot upwards, and he clicked his tongue. “I know. The large, bold writing is hard to ignore.”

He turned his head then, and Hermione couldn’t help the catch this time. It was back. The something when he looked at her.

“What is cancer?”

Hermione sighed and rested her chin in her palm. “It’s a disease. Incurable.”

He frowned, lifting the cigarette to his lips. He didn’t inhale. “Is that it?”

“What else would it be?”

He shrugged, his chest rising. He twisted away slightly, the smoke wreathing out of his nose. _Like a dragon_ , Hermione thought dully.

“I thought you’d know more,” he finally said.

Hermione pursed her lips. “Not really. It’s like…a mutation, I guess.”

“Like lycanthropy?”

“No. It’s inside.” Hermione’s brow furrowed as she tried to think of an explanation. “It grows inside of you, and stops things from functioning properly.”

Malfoy hummed. He watched the cigarette burn between his fingers. “It kills you?”

“Yes.”

“And this causes it?”

Hermione nodded once. “It can.”

He was silent for a moment. They watched the cigarette slowly fade, until Malfoy flicked it toward the ground. Its orange tip whizzed through the air, before disappearing into black.

“Another in a series of bad decisions, then,” he muttered.

Hermione bit her tongue, waiting. Counting ticks on her watch. He sighed, lowering himself so they were eye to eye.

“The others like them.”

“The others?”

He raised a brow, and her mouth opened slightly in understanding.

“The Death Eaters,” she clarified.

“Ironic, right?” he said, a bitter smile gracing his features.

“I never pegged you as a ‘jump after others off the bridge’ type.”

Malfoy didn’t say anything. Instead, his eyes traced over her. She wasn’t sure if he was analyzing, weighing over why she was there, or if it was for his own amusement. He enjoyed getting under her skin, after all.

When he stiffened slightly at her arm, Hermione instantly knew. She inhaled sharply, shielding it. She forgot she wasn’t wearing long sleeves. She couldn’t remember if she ever hadn’t around him.

“Sorry,” she mumbled, if only to break the silence.

Malfoy considered her for a moment, before gently reaching out with his left hand. Hermione’s eyes were drawn to his forearm, the black mark somehow darker than the rest of the night. She didn’t even realize his sleeves had been up. She glanced up at him, before hesitantly placing her wrist in his hand.

It was easy to see, even with the moon blaring against her skin. The word Bellatrix left glared up at them, the ugly letters as prominent as if it had happened yesterday. Malfoy pressed his lips together, seeming unable to look away.

“I’m sorry I didn’t help you,” he said quietly.

Hermione swallowed, steeling herself as she turned her hand, lacing his fingers between her own. Her heart skipped a beat as electricity rocketed through her.

“You have helped me,” she said. “Many times.” She bit her lip, dragging her thumb over the back of his hand. “Your debts are paid.”

Malfoy shook his head, his jaw clenching. “I’ll be paying debts for the rest of my life, Granger.”

“You were bound by fear,” she insisted, leaning forward to catch his eyes. “Don’t punish yourself for that.”

“And what am I bound by now?” he asked harshly. “It still happens. Every day, in my house, it still happens.”

Hermione gripped his hand tightly, willing him to listen. “You’re doing what is right,” she enunciated. “Right isn’t always good, remember? You can’t save everyone.”

She hoped he would believer her. For a moment, she thought he did. But then his eyes hardened, silver solidifying to stone, and he let go of her hand, pushing himself away from the ledge and striding toward the back door.

“What?” Hermione called, desperate to bring him back.

Malfoy didn’t answer. He was almost gone.

_Don’t let him recoil._

“Malfoy, do _not_ walk away from me.”

He hissed between his teeth, throwing his head up toward the sky before turning to face her again. “I’m not jumping through hoops for you,” he seethed. “I have to get back.”

“ _No_.” Hermione lunged forward, grabbing his wrist. “What did I say? Talk to me.”

Malfoy narrowed his eyes and ripped his wrist from her, but he didn’t leave. He glowered at her like he could throw daggers just by standing there, and she believed that he could. But Hermione only lifted her chin, her jaw tensing. She could throw them too.

“What were you thinking?” he accused.

Hermione’s resolve faltered, replaced by confusion. “What?”

“Splitting off,” he spat. “Leading Dolohov on some wild chase.”

_Oh._

Hermione tilted her head slightly. “I did what I had to. He was going to find us, and it would all be for nothing.”

“He could have killed you.”

“He didn’t.”

“He _almost_ killed you.”

Hermione knew that. The days bedridden, the fits told her that. Daphne told her that. Ron never said it, but the way he carried himself around her told her that. But hearing _him_ say it was different. Malfoy shook his head, sighing and throwing his eyes to the ground.

“You said that you wanted to see Potter.”

Hermione’s stomach dropped. Her knees nearly gave out, and she took a step backwards, her hands searching for purchase that they didn’t find. Malfoy only lifted his chin, his eyes glinting, his chest rising and falling heavily.

“I…” Hermione’s voice was caught in her throat. “I don’t remember.”

“No,” Malfoy scoffed, a hard laugh. “I don’t expect that you do.”

He swallowed then, tearing his gaze away from her. “A little self-preservation goes a long way, Granger.”

Hermione’s bottom lip trembled. She wanted to see Harry. She said that to him. She couldn’t imagine saying it at all. Her chest stuttered; there were shadows around her, shadows she couldn’t see, but they tightened, encircled her.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t know. But…but I’m okay. Everything—”

“You’re not understanding me,” Malfoy interrupted. He licked his lips, and his hands shot to his face, his fingers splayed. Hiding.

“I was scared,” he uttered. “I was bloody fucking terrified.”

She had to go to him. She couldn’t move, but she needed to be with him more. She willed herself to walk, nearly staggering until she stood toe to toe with him. Hermione held her breath, hesitantly reaching up to his wrists, pulling them away.

He looked terrified now.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered.

Malfoy pressed his lips together, lowering his head until their foreheads were nearly touching. She was brimming already, the brush of his hair against her face lighting her on fire.

“Don’t do it again.”

Hermione nodded. She took a deep breath, letting him go and presenting her pinky for him. Malfoy’s eyebrows drew together, glancing confusedly between it and her.

“It’s a pinky promise,” she explained. She grabbed his hand again, maneuvering it until their pinkies were locked. “It’s binding. More powerful than the Unbreakable Vow, even.”

Malfoy’s head tilted, and he eyed her like she was suddenly insane. “I hardly think—”

“It is.”

There was nothing but them. She was lost in him as he dragged his eyes over her face.

“I promise I will never do it again,” Hermione said.

Her nerves spiked when he didn’t say anything. They spiked even more when he slowly touched his forehead to hers. Even when he pulled away, he was still close, and she could feel it still, like he was permanently etched into her skin. Her stomach fluttered when he brushed her hair from her face, his fingers grazing cautiously over her cheek, before staying there, burning her.

“Draco,” she whispered, the fire willing her to say it.

He stilled.

“Am I imagining things?”

He stared at her as if she was the only thing in the world, the only thing that mattered. She had always seen stone, silver, stars in his eyes. Never fire.

“No,” he answered, and his hand angled her chin upwards, capturing her lips with his.

If there was fire before, she only knew fireworks now. _God_ , he was alighting her. She let go of his hand, finding his collar and desperately pulling him closer. Somehow, he had done the same; a hand at the small of her back, pressing her against him. His mouth was sinful against hers, and she didn’t care that he tasted like smoke. His tongue swiped against her bottom lip, and Hermione parted her mouth, her breath hitching as he deepened the kiss.

Even when the pace slowed, her body didn’t stop thrumming. Even when their lips parted, they didn’t move. The Malfoy ring was cold against her cheek. Draco pressed his forehead into hers once more, his eyes closed. Hermione tried to focus on breathing, keeping her own in sync with his, but her mind was racing so much it was almost overwhelming. Almost.

She didn’t dare let go of his collar.

“You arguably could have done that a lot sooner,” she gasped.

Draco’s face split into a smile, and he let out a small tsk of a laugh. “Still bossing me around, I see.”

Hermione laughed, doubling over slightly and hitting her head against his chest playfully. She stared there for a moment, listening to the low beats of his heart against his chest. Draco’s hand snaked from her face, wrapping around her shoulders and holding her close. He rested his chin on her head, and Hermione sighed, closing her eyes, trying to forget where they were, who they were.

“This changes everything, doesn’t it?” she murmured.

His chest rose and fell once, lulling her, and then his fingers were at her chin, lifting her head. For the first time, she could see everything written on his face; desire that she was unfamiliar with, masked by a quiet resignation. Draco pressed his lips together, his gaze unfocused as he traced her jaw. He shook his head minutely.

He didn’t know.

* * *

Hermione leaned over her legs as she sat on the couch, her elbows digging into her thighs painfully. It was mostly to keep them from shaking under her, trembling violently against her will. She pressed her hands against her lips, resembling how she would pretend to pray whenever her grandparents dragged her to church whenever they visited over a weekend. They stopped going shortly after her grandfather passed away; her parents never really cared for the establishment, and Hermione felt sure that she would spontaneously combust upon entering once they received the letter from Hogwarts.

If she wouldn’t then, she surely would now. She tended to believe that if anything _was_ up in the sky, it didn’t particularly care for war heroes.

They were all crowded in the living room, adopting similar postures of anxiety-ridden waiting. Luna was fidgeting with her fingers next to her, pressing her lips together and staring at the floor. Ernie was across from them, finding the ceiling particularly interesting. Theo was behind Daphne’s chair, his ear toward the hallway as he leaned, and Astoria was kneeling on the floor, her head in Daphne’s lap. Her scar was a light pink, tightened against her skin.

They couldn’t do much else other than sit in the living room, after all. In his haste, Kingsley had forgotten to cast a _muffliato_.

“Let me get this straight, Mister Malfoy.”

Kingsley’s voice was dangerously quiet, somehow still traveling through the house. Hermione closed her eyes for a second too long. Of course, Grimmauld Place had to have paper thin walls.

“An entire safehouse was ransacked and taken prisoner, and your recommendation is to do nothing.”

Theo scoffed lightly, shaking his head. “It was pretty clear the first time he said it,” he muttered.

Unlike Kingsley, _they_ had cast a _muffliato_ as soon as everyone had filed into the room.

“Yes,” Draco’s voice wafted, clearly clipped and irritated. It was like Theo had said his thoughts out loud.

“Did you know?”

There was silence for a moment. Hermione counted ticks on her watch.

“I had other things to attend to,” Draco said finally.

“That wasn’t my question,” Kingsley shot out.

Ernie blew air harshly through his lips. He lifted his hands, resting his arms against the back of the couch and tapped at the leather nervously.

“I didn’t know.”

Hermione pressed her lips together, her stomach suddenly very heavy.

There was a loud sigh. A shuffle of shoes, of paper against the kitchen table.

“Of all the intelligence to miss, Mister Malfoy, that was the most important.”

Daphne scowled, her face twisting into an impressive glare. “He won’t take that,” she nearly hissed.

“So, I _shouldn’t_ have intercepted their plan to resurrect the Dark Lord, then?” Draco drawled, his tone filling insubordinately with impatience.

“Don’t take a tone with me,” Kingsley snapped.

Hermione’s eyebrows lifted to her hairline. Kingsley never snapped.

Theo turned his head sharply toward the kitchen, his mouth parting as he narrowed her eyes. “When has Draco missed anything?” he argued, as if Kingsley could hear him.

“Never.”

Hermione blinked. Everyone twisted, a large number of eyes suddenly at Ron’s back. He was staring out the window, his shoulders tense.

“He’s never missed anything,” Ron clarified, not breaking from the window.

Hermione let out a slow exhale. Ron was right, even if she never thought she’d see a moment where he defended Draco. A couple days ago, _he_ was the one getting into Draco’s face about the Dartford prisoners. But she couldn’t help the sinking of her stomach now; she was sure that she’d find it on the floor by her feet any minute now.

Kingsley was right, too. They couldn’t afford to lose a safehouse, not now.

Of all the intelligence to miss.

“You’ve put me in a precarious position, Mister Malfoy,” Kingsley said. There was a low scuff of a chair against the floor. “Now, I have to consider that a large group of some of our best fighters are not only gone, but most likely being tortured in your manor.”

Hermione’s chest constricted as Draco’s words rang through her mind. _It still happens. Every day, in my house, it still happens._

“Now, I have to consider that you are lying,” Kingsley continued darkly. “That your allegiances lie elsewhere.”

“I—”

“Don’t you _dare_ interrupt me!” Kingsley suddenly shouted.

Luna flinched next to her, inhaling sharply. Ernie’s head twisted toward the kitchen so hard that Hermione nearly expected his neck to snap. His jaw clenched, his eyes narrowing.

“Fuck that,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

“You don’t have the grounds to interrupt me,” Kingsley said, his voice so deadly that it could perhaps kill not only Draco, but everyone else in the living room. “You’ve informed me of a devasting blow to our cause that you _failed_ to prevent, and you have the audacity to say that we can’t do a thing about it now.”

The whole house was potent, toxic with the silence that followed. Hermione could nearly imagine them in the kitchen; Kingsley, his hands propping himself up as he rested them on the table. Draco at the other end, stiff as a board, his face blank. She tried to ignore the way his eyes cleared in her mind, how despite how much he closed himself off, he wasn’t very good at hiding the burden of failure. Draco Malfoy didn’t associate himself with failure; that much she knew.

“The tragedy of it is, I agree with you,” Kingsley finally said, his voice quieter, softer again.

Ron let out a heavy sigh, his shoulders sinking as he fisted his hands in his pockets. Otherwise, he didn’t move. He must have known that Kingsley would agree with Draco’s recommendation; a surprised Ron would have swiveled on his toes, his face already blooming red as he pounced out of the room.

Hermione flicked her gaze to Luna, seeing only the back of the girl’s head. She was staring at Ron’s back, her fingers fidgeting uncharacteristically with the hem of her shirt. Hermione pursed her lips and nudged her with her shoulder. When Luna twisted, her brows quirking toward the bridge of her nose, she gestured toward Ron with her chin.

_Go talk to him_.

The corner of Luna’s mouth pulled sadly. She took a deep breath and shook her head, returning Hermione’s gesture.

_You should._

Hermione jutted backwards. What, Luna wanted _her_ to talk to Ron? Absolutely not. Even if they were disregarding the fact that Hermione very rarely calmed Ron, it wasn’t a conversation she was even remotely ready to engage in. Talking to Ron about Kingsley’s decision would ultimately turn into talking to Ron about Draco. Draco, with his silver eyes, with his cold but gentle touch, with the most sinful mouth that she had only gotten a _glimpse_ of—

Ron was more intuitive than Hermione often gave him credit for. There was no way she was going to talk to him.

She shook her head, perhaps more frantically than she intended. She pointed at Luna’s chest, then Ron, her bottom lip pouting outward slightly.

Luna narrowed her eyes. Her chin lifted, and she pointed at Hermione, her eyes flicking toward the window with insistency. Hermione’s mouth nearly dropped open; since when did Luna get argumentative? She leaned forward, about to prove that she could be even _more_ insistent, when there was a soft chuckle across from them.

Ernie shook his head when they both whirled to face him, his hand slapping over his mouth. His eyes sparkled when he looked up at them, and he pointed at himself before drawing off the couch. He began to meander his way toward Ron, but stopped dead in his tracks, the smile on his face dropping immediately at the sharp clack of dragonhide shoes on the floor.

Hermione’s eyes widened, and she swatted through the air, canceling the _muffliato_ and entering a staring contest with the wall. She refused to look up even when the footsteps slowed to a stop by the entrance of the living room.

“For fuck’s sake.”

Hermione winced, and she glanced at Draco in her periphery. There was an impressive scowl painted across his face, clearly communicating his malevolent displeasure with the universe. His eyes dragged across the living room, and he huffed heavily through his nose.

He didn’t look at her once.

Ernie attempted a weak grin. “How goes it, Malfoy?”

Draco’s eyes narrowed. “Piss off, Macmillan.”

“Wait—”

Draco wasn’t even there to see Ernie take a pitiful step forward. He stalked toward the front door, wrenched it open, and slammed it shut.

Astoria lifted her head, her dark hair falling haphazardly over her shoulders. “Yikes.”

“Don’t take it personally,” Theo grumbled. He inspected his fingernails before side-eyeing Ernie. “He does that _all_ the time.”

“That doesn’t really make me feel better,” Ernie deadpanned.

Theo shrugged, throwing his palms upward flippantly. “Throwing doors in people’s faces is Draco’s way of saying that he likes you.”

Ernie tilted his head slowly, his tongue sticking into his cheek. “Oh, perfect. In that case, I’m flattered.”

“Hey, it took me _years_ to get knocked back by a door. You should be flattered that—”

Theo cut himself off at a creak in the floorboards, straightening and coming face to face with Kingsley.

“What are all of you doing in here?”

“Nothing,” Theo and Daphne said at once.

Hermione dropped her head in her hand, stifling a loud groan.

Kingsley eyed them all warily, clutching the stack of parchment he held closer to his chest. After a moment, he sighed, pinching at the bridge of his nose as his mouth twisted into a grimace.

“I forgot to cast a _muffliato_ , didn’t I?”

Ernie let out a breath of a laugh. “Yeah,” he said lamely.

Kingsley dropped his hand and stared at the staircase in front of him. His posture slackened, his back suddenly hunched as if making his way to the second floor was a daunting, impossible task. Hermione bit her lip, scratching at her jeans to fight off a wave of tremors.

Maybe it was.

“Well,” Kingsley said shortly, his voice finding a familiar boom. He looked at all of them again sternly. “Don’t you all have something to attend to?”

They didn’t need a second order. Ron, Ernie, and Luna all filed up the stairs after Kingsley, and Theo and Astoria quickly scampered toward the kitchen. Daphne watched the floor for a long time, before standing and fixing Hermione with a clinical stare.

“Kitchen?”

Hermione raised an eyebrow. “Where else?”

* * *

“Did you talk to Draco?”

Hermione stilled. Her hand drifted in midair, suspended, the gnat’s wings that she perfectly counted to Daphne’s liking pressed hard between her fingers. She stared into the cauldron, her mind racing for any sort of spell that would allow her to disintegrate immediately, catch in a light breeze, and never return. Maybe she could apparate _very_ quickly and throw herself off a cliff. Hit the waves that crashed below, die. That would be better than addressing Daphne’s question.

She could feel Daphne’s eyes on her now. The girl had looked away from the potions book on the counter, she was sure of it. Hermione didn’t dare to meet her gaze. She slowly dropped her hand, letting her wrist rest on the countertop and licking her lips.

What on earth could she say? Of course, they had talked. They did a little bit of _not_ talking, too. And now, he wasn’t even looking at her. If he was avoiding her before, he was downright ignoring her existence now. Hermione didn’t want to admit it, but she couldn’t stop the sting in her chest whenever his eyes somehow drifted over her, as if she was only a shadow, an object that didn’t require recognition or thought. It burned her lungs, inflaming throughout her torso, and it nearly made tears spring from her lashes.

Perhaps too predictably, she had gone over every possible explanation for suddenly being erased. Was she that bad of a kisser? It certainly had been a while, and the last one was in the middle of a battle, but she didn’t think she was terrible. Was it something she said? The only thing she could come up with was that he was severely put off by a pinky promise. They hadn’t spoken since that night, making a pinky promise the only questionable thing that came out of her mouth.

Besides her tongue, anyway.

The worst of it was, she didn’t feel angry with him at all. Any earlier time, and she would have resigned to labeling him as he was: a git. A selfish git. A selfish, slimy, Death Eater git. But it felt _wrong_ to think that. It suited him, yes, down to a tee, but she knew more about him now. She knew that he tapped at his upper lip when he thought. She knew that he organized when he was uncomfortable, straightening items that didn’t need straightened; he certainly didn’t need to organize himself. Draco was always dressed nicely, even when the familiar, metallic smell of dark magic clung to his clothing; there was never a hair out of place. She knew he almost never rolled his sleeves up, she knew he would do anything for the people close to him, and she knew that a smile, a _true_ smile from him, was so rare that it could make the sun rise early.

Hermione was good at cataloging, but she had always been in charge of it. She chose what information she filed away. It wasn’t until now that she realized she had been cataloging the minor details of him. Even after the night of Astoria’s injury, she hadn’t realized it, even when she lifted her chin. For _him_ , she had lifted her chin.

It felt like she was always returning to the puzzle. This time, though, she recognized herself in the pieces. Did she not fit? Were they not as alike as she presumed?

_Am I imagining things?_

She couldn’t have been. Hermione was prone to big dreams, big ideas; she’d be the first to admit it. But she never imagined anything that was farfetched. She was Hermione Granger; logical, the brightest witch of her age, even if she felt anything but most of the time. No one could look at her as he did, like she was the sea, or a sunrise, or the stars at night. No one could touch her as he did, like he needed permission, like he could leave trails of fire with his fingertips. No one ever said she was right, that he would’ve done the same, and didn’t mean it.

_No._

Maybe he was just good at lying.

“Hermione?”

She nearly jumped out of her skin. She dropped the gnat’s wings on the counter, her eyes widening as she finally faced Daphne.

“Yes?”

“Did you talk to Draco?”

Hermione ripped her gaze away, picking up the gnat’s wings one by one, her heart pattering as her fingers struggled against the countertop. “Yeah,” she coughed out, her brows furrowing. “Yes.”

When Daphne didn’t answer, Hermione dared to glance at her. She was still staring at her. Daphne took a deep breath through her nose, her fingers curling around the page about the antidote for common poisons, and shot her face to the rest of the kitchen.

“What?” Hermione asked, her voice louder than she intended.

Daphne’s lips pursed. “I…”

Her teeth clicked as she shut her mouth. She let out a huff, shaking her head and returning to the potions text. “I don’t know,” she finally relented. “I hoped it would help.”

Hermione frowned. Merlin, her cheeks were hot. “Help what?”

Daphne threw an irritated glance toward her, and Hermione was reminded that Daphne didn’t particularly care for questions she found to be pointless and stupid.

“Him,” she clipped.

Well, they had certainly missed the boat there.

“Talking with me has never helped Draco,” Hermione said.

Daphne’s eyes narrowed, and she slowly looked up from the counter. Hermione’s stomach dropped a thousand meters.

She called him Draco. In front of Daphne. It had been instant. Hermione swallowed thickly. She didn’t want to talk to Daphne about this. She didn’t want to talk to _anyone_ about this. What would she even say? _Oh, yes, I talked to one of your best friends. He only admitted that he was terrified by the thought of me dying. And we also kissed but now he’s not speaking to me and I’m not really sure what to do about that. Do you have any tips on how to snog someone properly?_

“Right,” Daphne said.

To Hermione’s relief, that was all she said. In fact, it was the last thing she said for the rest of the night. Daphne didn’t make a borderline snide comment on the importance of rest when one was recovering, not even when Hermione’s hands started to shake again. She had merely shut the potions textbook, cleaned her station, and walked out. Hermione guessed that she was tired, or coming to the conclusion that Gryffindors were incredibly stubborn.

She gritted her teeth, scrubbing at the countertop of her own station. It was pristine, the leftover messes from their brewing long gone, but the counter was any easy thing to take her feelings out on. Hermione was frustrated. She was confused. Of course, Draco Malfoy had thrown her through a loop _once_ again. He was a book she couldn’t read, and she hated it.

“I shouldn’t even be worried about this,” she muttered harshly, partially hoping to break the white tile underneath her fingers.

It was ridiculous to think about him. It was ridiculous to puzzle over a puzzle that could never be solved. It was batshit crazy for her mind to wander to his mouth, to the way his hand tangled through her hair, to the electricity that zapped through her whenever they happened to make eye contact. There was a war going on. Ginny was still gone. Michael was still gone. Harry was dead, a whole safehouse was captured, and her parents would never remember her.

If Draco wanted to ignore her, _fine_. She had more important things to worry about.

Hermione finally relented her onslaught against the counter and threw the rag into the sink, relishing the hard plat against the ceramic. She hauled the cauldron off the stove top and into a cabinet by her feet, making sure that it was balancing upright. Stepping back, her eyes scanned over the kitchen one last time, and then she walked out of the kitchen, flicking the light switch on the wall as she exited.

Another day. That’s all it was: just another day.

Hermione circled at her temple, pressing into her skull and closing her eyes as she meandered through the dining room. She could walk Grimmauld Place blindfolded, in the dark now. She opened her eyes, and squinted at an orange glow emanating from the living room. Her feet dragged her towards it without a second thought.

She should put the fire out. No one was sleeping in there tonight, and the last thing they needed was for the house to burn down.

Hermione froze when she saw Draco there, though. He was staring into the fire, his right hand covering his mouth, and he was leaning against the back of the couch, his long legs sprawled across the floor. His eyes nearly matched the flames, reflecting like mirrors. Against the fire, he gleamed; the shadows under his eyes melded perfectly with his skin, softening his harsh angles, the hard lines of his face. Hermione imagined this is what he would look like under the sun.

She couldn’t breathe.

He was beautiful, like that.

Hermione took a step forward, not quite sure what she was thinking, only to immediately draw herself behind the wall. There was an unmistakable face within the fireplace, the black bob and bangs impossible to ignore.

“Blaise says that it’s quite nice this time of year,” Pansy said. Hermione could nearly see the way she inspected her fingernails, and her voice was as grating as she remembered. Her jaw clenched, and she peeked out from behind the wall.

Draco hadn’t moved.

“The weather is good,” Pansy continued, as if Draco’s silence wasn’t deterring at all. “And the beaches in Venice are nearly empty, if you’ll believe it. Actually, the whole country is suffering from a lack of tourists because…”

Draco clearly was doing his best impression of a statue. Hermione could barely see a flash of irritation across his face.

Pansy sighed, and the flames licked out of the fireplace momentarily, a hand waving dismissively. “Well, we know why.”

Hermione nearly scoffed. Leave it to Pansy Parkinson to utter the understatement of the decade.

“And my Italian is getting better.”

Draco lifted a brow doubtfully.

“It is! I can write, I can read. I bet that I’m nearly fluent.”

There was a soft crackle, a low thump of wood falling to the bottom of the fireplace.

“Of course, no one’s _spoken_ to me in Italian, so I guess I’ll find out when I get there.”

Draco dropped his hand, and he eyed the fireplace with an extreme displeasure. “ _Ti comporti come un idiota e voglio farti sentire un po ‘di buon senso_.”

Hermione’s eyebrows shot to her hairline. She had only been to Italy once, a four-day retreat with her parents before she went to Hogwarts for the first time. But from what she remembered, he sounded exactly like a native.

There was a soft click, and Hermione wasn’t sure if it was the fire or Pansy’s tongue.

“Did you just call me an idiot?”

“ _Fuck_ , Pansy,” Draco said, his fingers splaying across his face.

“Because if so—”

“You don’t even know the language,” Draco nearly whined. He leaned further against the couch, his head tilting toward the ceiling as if he needed some sort of support from the sky.

“I’ll know it! I’m smart and I’m capable!”

Draco dropped his hands, letting them thud against the floor. His throat bobbed, his eyes tracing patterns in the ceiling that Hermione wasn’t aware were there.

“Why are you going?” he asked softly.

There was a sigh from the fireplace. The shadows that danced across the living room dimmed slightly, and the brilliant orange seemed to fade, the glare against the window disappearing.

“We’ve been over this, Draco.”

“Run it by me again,” he drawled, raising his hand and drawing a loose circle in the air.

Pansy scoffed. “I don’t know why I have to. I want to be with Blaise, and more importantly, I want to be out of this damn country.”

“Why?”

“You know perfectly well why.”

Draco’s eyes narrowed, and his head shot upward. “Because you want to be safe.”

“So you _are_ aware of why I’m going,” Pansy said snidely.

Draco’s lips pressed into a thin line, and he leaned forward, crossing his legs and resting his elbows against his knees. “You’d be safe here,” he argued.

“Don’t bullshit me,” Pansy snapped. “I know what goes on over there, even if you refuse to tell me. One of their houses got ransacked. I wouldn’t _be_ safe.”

“ _I’m_ bullshitting _you_?” Draco’s face twisted incredulously, and he squinted into the fire as if she had just said the most barmy thing he had ever heard. “I’ve been nothing but transparent. You _know_ that they won’t accept this, you _know_ that they can track your departure—”

“Draco—”

“And you know it because of _me_ ,” Draco said darkly, his finger jabbing into his chest. “It’s _bullshit_ to think that this will turn out well, and it’s _bullshit_ to believe—”

“I love him, alright?!”

The fire roared, the room exploding with light as the flames nearly rushed out of the fireplace. Draco blinked, straightening as his face slackened minutely.

“I love him,” Pansy repeated, her voice breaking. There was a sniff, a sharp exhale. “It’s fucking embarrassing that you know before he does. But I do, and I want to be with him, and I want to be as far from this _stupid_ fucking war as I can be.”

The shadows deepened across the room, and Draco’s eyes stopped glinting as magnificently as the fire started to die.

“I’d risk my life for that,” Pansy whispered, her voice barely above the snapping wood.

Draco swallowed, and he took a large breath as he threw his gaze to the floor. “What about your mother, then?” he asked hoarsely. He looked up then, the corner of his mouth turning downwards. “You love her. What about Daphne, and Astoria, and Theo? Do they not mean anything? What about—”

He cut himself off, twisting his face away from the fire.

There was nothing but small pops breaking the silence, and each one only served to increase the dripping potency of the air. Hermione rested her cheek against the wall, watching as Draco struggled to throw a wall up. She had never seen him like this, unable to compartmentalize. It nearly broke her heart.

“You know I love you, Draco.”

Hermione let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. She knew that feeling, understood it in her bones. She felt it every time Ron left Grimmauld Place, every time he stood his ground over what he thought was right, was good, only to be shot down by the realities of their situation. She was entirely too familiar with watching Harry and knowing that no amount of loving him could change anything, could help him at all. It was like watching someone drown, and you couldn’t swim.

The resignation was clear as day on Draco’s face. He loved her – as she loved Harry, as she loved Ron – and he couldn’t do a thing about it.

Draco’s eyes flicked upwards.

Hermione rocketed behind the wall, squeezing her eyes shut at the slow creak of the floorboards under her feet. Her hand came up over her mouth, stifling her panicked breaths. _Fuck_ , she hoped he hadn’t seen her.

“Draco.”

Hermione didn’t wait for Pansy to continue. She made a rush for the stairs, her wand sliding between her fingers and casting a _muffliato_ over her footsteps.

* * *

In the days that followed, her frustration didn’t necessarily fade, but her confusion did. Maybe it was fate that she overheard his conversation with Pansy. Their situation reminded her, ironically, of the one she was in with Ron a year ago. A kiss meant nothing during a war. Draco didn’t need to say it; it was clear that his mind was preoccupied with other things.

She huffed, pushing back a stray strand of hair with the back of her hand. Hermione didn’t necessarily know _why_ that meant he had to ignore her, but maybe that was just Draco. He wasn’t one to lay his feelings on his sleeve, like “a bloody Hufflepuff.”

Still. Hermione didn’t appreciate hiding entirely like a bloody Slytherin.

“Alright, dear?”

Hermione whipped away from the stovetop, seeing Mrs. Weasley standing at the edge of the small kitchen. She was propping the front door open with her foot, frowning as she wiped at a glass, blue plate in her hands. The ocean hushed behind her, black with white-topped waves against the foggy sky.

“Yes,” Hermione said, plastering a smile on her face. “Just finishing up Bill’s potion.”

Mrs. Weasley looked up, her eyes crinkling at the edges. “You seem bothered.”

Hermione tilted her head. “Isn’t everyone?”

Mrs. Weasley let out a faint chuckle, and she meandered to Hermione’s side. She set the plate down and stared out the window above the sink, into the garden. Hermione heaved the cauldron off the stovetop and matched her gaze. Neville was kneeled in the dirt, examining the leaves of some purplish plant that she could never identify.

“I suppose so,” Mrs. Weasley said. She sighed, her fingers curling into her rag. “It seems that distractions, however necessary, don’t much help.”

Hermione thought it was a comment that she could laugh over in hindsight. The readings, the potions, the healing; they were all necessary distractions, and they didn’t hold up to the latter half the description very well. She recognized them in everyone, too; Neville and his gardening, Luna and her Wrackspurts. As she tidied up the kitchen, checked on Mister Weasley once more, and said goodbye to Bill and Fleur, she wondered what Draco’s was.

When Hermione apparated back to Grimmauld Place, the sun was just beginning to set. She looked down the street, admiring the way the sky blended with pinks and oranges, the rays barely streaking over the treetops. It was a stark comparison to the house itself; always grey and bleak.

It was only when she ascended the steps of the porch, her hand hovering over the doorknob, that her stomach twisted. Hermione suddenly couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong. She narrowed her eyes, watching as the windows of the living room rattled in their frames.

Someone was wailing.

Hermione wrenched the door open, her wand pointed in front of her. She was hit with a wave of sound, of a screeching that threatened to make her ears bleed. She stalked toward the entrance of the living room, her heart beating frantically across her chest.

Astoria was on the couch. She was shaking violently, her cheeks shining even in the dim lighting. Daphne’s head was in her lap, and she was gripping her shoulders so hard that her knuckles were white.

Daphne was wailing.

“What…” Hermione gasped out, her wand lowering. She couldn’t even formulate a thought.

Daphne sucked in a breath, her throat warbling. “Go away,” she sobbed, digging her face into Astoria’s thigh.

“Daphne—”

“GO AWAY!” Daphne screeched, ripping herself upward.

Hermione recoiled, unable to look away from her reddened face, the tears that dribbled down her chin. She didn’t move when Daphne squeezed her eyes shut, breaking into another round of sobs and burying into her sister’s chest.

Hermione couldn’t breathe. She wrenched herself forward, her legs shaking as she entered the kitchen. Ron, Luna, and Ernie were sitting at the table, their heads bowed. Ron was holding Luna’s hand.

_Not him_ , was all Hermione could think. _Please not him_.

“What’s happened?” she demanded, her eyes wide as she scanned over them.

Luna looked up, her bottom lip trembling. Hermione thought the world could end in the time it took her to speak.

“Pansy died,” Luna whispered.

Everything started to spin. Hermione felt woozy, nearly falling to the floor. That couldn’t be right. She had just seen her, a specter floating in the fireplace. She had just heard her. Pansy was just talking with—

Her heart stopped. Draco.

“Where’s Malfoy?” she blurted, stepping toward the table.

Ron grimaced, his hand tightening around Luna’s. “I don’t think—”

“ _Where_ is he?”

Ron pressed his lips together. “Upstairs. He locked himself in the bathroom.”

Hermione twisted on her heel, stumbling out of the kitchen and ignoring Ron’s calls after her to stay. She had to see him. She leaned heavily against the railing of the staircase, her feet pounding against the steps, when she suddenly rammed into an obstacle in front of her. Her head snapped up, and Theo was in front of her, his hands at her shoulders.

“Don’t,” he said.

“I need to see him.”

“You don’t want to.”

Hermione’s eyes narrowed. “It doesn’t matter what I _want_.”

Theo’s chest heaved, his hazel eyes dragged over her face. One of his hands rubbed at her bicep, and then he turned to the side. Hermione blew past him, stalking toward the bathroom door and banging hard enough to throw it off its hinges.

“Draco,” she said, ignoring the way her voice shook. “Open the door, or so help me—”

The door wrenched open, and she balked.

His clothes were disheveled. His hair was greasy, defying gravity. His face was skeletal, his eyes sunken under large, dark circles. Hermione couldn’t stop hyperventilating; he leaned against the door frame, a firewhiskey bottle held loosely between his fingers. The knuckles of his hand were bloody.

“What?” he slurred, and Hermione could taste the alcohol on his breath. She looked over his shoulder, seeing that the mirror was shattered, the silver shards decorating the sink, the floor. The light was flickering as if out of power.

“Draco…” she said slowly.

“Don’t _Draco_ me,” he fumbled.

Hermione opened her mouth, but no sound came out. Draco scoffed, opening the door fully for her and turned, stumbling away and bringing the bottle to his lips. Something kicked in her, and she launched forward, forcing the bottle away.

It was the wrong thing to do. He slowly faced her, towering over her, threatening to plunge the entire bathroom into darkness.

“ _What_ are you doing?” he hissed.

“Do you intend to drink yourself to death, then?” Hermione said quickly.

“ _In_ tend,” he enunciated, his eyes narrowing dangerously. “I don’t _intend_ to do anything.”

“Let go of it, Draco.”

His jaw tightened, and he lifted the bottle over his head, out of her grasp. Before she could think, he dropped the bottle, sending it crashing to the floor. Hermione jumped back, gasping and shooting her hand to her mouth. The alcohol pooled over the floor, over the glass.

“Great,” Draco shot out, his hand slapping against his thigh. “I have to get another.” He took a step forward, supporting himself against the sink. “You stay here, save my spot for me.”

“No, Draco,” Hermione said. She grabbed at his shirt, pushing him away from the door. “Let me—”

“Get off me,” Draco slurred, his hands lamely pulling at her wrists. “I want—”

“You’re bleeding,” Hermione insisted, panic setting in as she tried to overpower him. “Let me heal—”

“Nope,” Draco interrupted. He shook his head violently, trying to side-step her and nearly toppling over. “I am _intending_ to bleed out, and you’re ruining it. Get _off_ me.”

Hermione inhaled sharply, wrestling against him, desperate to keep him in place. “Draco, please—”

“I—”

“She wouldn’t want you to do this,” Hermione begged.

He froze. His grip lessened. He visibly paled, his eyes clearing, sobering.

“What?” he whispered.

Hermione almost stepped on his shoes trying to get closer to him. “Pansy,” she said, hoping to God he would understand, that he would stop. “She wouldn’t want you to do this to yourself.”

The light stopped flickering. Hermione held her breath, blood roaring in her ears. He had to listen. He had to.

Her stomach dropped when his eyes hardened.

“She doesn’t want anything,” he said darkly. “She’s gone.”

He started his struggle against her again, his hand now pushing at her side. Hermione braced herself, wrinkling his shirt now that her grip was so tight.

“Draco, _no_ , you can’t leave.”

“Leave me alone,” he argued, his voice louder. He was now pushing her toward the bathroom door.

“Draco—”

“ _Stop_ it!” he shouted. “I just—”

“Please—”

And then he was gone. He had wrenched himself out of her grasp. Hermione shrieked as he fell backwards, as one of the bulbs above them shattered. Draco’s limbs flung wildly, his arm trying to land on the bathtub, and he crashed to the floor, his head slamming into the wall. He squeezed his eyes shut, his mouth agape, his shoulders rising and locking him between the tub and the corner.

Hermione’s lungs struggled, stuttered against her chest. Her hands clapped over her mouth. She couldn’t look away, not while Draco remained immobile, spread eagle on the floor. He tried to push himself up, but his legs didn’t work, and his elbow slid against the bathtub. He inhaled sharply and opened his eyes.

They were cloudy. He didn’t breathe, his gaze darting over the glass, the firewhiskey, the shattered bulb at the center of the floor, a frightened panic setting deeply on his features.

Then, he started to cry.

Draco’s face twisted, a bright sob escaping his lips. He slowly lifted his hand, pressing his wrist into his eye, shielding himself away from her as ragged breaths shook his torso.

Hermione’s fingers trembled as she took a step forward. She kneeled next to him, her eyes welling with tears of her own, and she reached out for his shoulder hesitantly, afraid to scare him. Her heart broke when he leaned toward her, falling into her lap, and she immediately cradled his head, resting her chin in his hair.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered hoarsely. “I’m so sorry.”

She wouldn’t wish it on anyone. Not even him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wrote that kiss scene with "Love for Duty" from the soundtrack of "Medici" on netflix on repeat. highly recommend if you like soundtrack music and/or historical shows. Lorenzo kind of reminds me of a Draco that was brought up better :') 
> 
> also, I am incredibly sorry to all of those who are fluent in Italian. I am unfortunately NOT, so this was a google translation. I'm hoping it's somewhere in the realm of "You're acting like an idiot and I want to throttle some sense into you."


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